BABOO'S    GOOD    TIGER 
"Baboo  catch  tail,  run  too  "  (see  page  26) 


^   TALES  OF 
THE  MALAYAN  COAST 

From  Penang  to  the  Philippines 


BY 


ROUNSEVELLE   V^ILDMAN 

CONSUL  GENERAL  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES  AT  HONG-KONG 


ILLUSTRATED    BY    HENRY    SANDHAM 


BOSTON 
LOTHROP    PUBLISHING   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1899, 
BY 

LOTHROP   PUBLISHING   COMPANY. 


Norwood  Press 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.— Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mass.   U.S.A. 


"PS 

3319 


3 


TO 

©ur  Ifyzw 

AND   MY    FRIEND 

ADMIRAL   GEORGE   DEWEY,    U.S.N. 

I   DEDICATE   THIS   BOOK 


Flagship   Olympia, 
Manila,  21  Sept,,  1898. 

MY  DEAR  WILDMAN  :  — 

Yours  of  1 2th  instant  is 
at  hand.      I  am  much  flattered  by  your 
request   to   dedicate   your  book  to  me, 
and  would  be  pleased  to  have  you  do  so. 
With  kindest  regards,  I  am, 
Very  truly  yours, 

GEORGE    DEWEY. 


- 


. 


PREFACE 

THESE  stories  are  the  result  of  nine 
years*  residence  and  experience  on  the 
Malayan  coast  —  that  land  of  romance  and 
adventure  which  the  ancients  knew  as  the 
Golden  Chersonesus,  and  which,  in  modern 
times,  has  been  brought  again  into  the  atmos- 
phere of  valor  and  performance  by  Rajah 
Brooke  of  Sarawak,  the  hero  of  English 
expansion,  and  Admiral  George  Dewey  of 
the  Asiatic  squadron,  the  hero  of  American 
achievement.  The  author,  in  his  official 
duties  as  Special  Commissioner  of  the  United 
States  for  the  Straits  Settlement  and  Siam, 
and,  later,  as  Consul  General  of  the  United 
States  at  Hong  Kong,  has  mingled  with  and 
studied  the  diverse  people  of  the  Malayan 

coast,  from  the   Sultan   of  Johore  and   Agui- 

5 


6  Preface 

naldo  the  Filipino  to  the  lowest  Eurasian  and 
"  China  boy  "  of  that  wonderful  Oriental  land. 
These  stories  are  based  on  his  experiences 
afloat  and  ashore,  and  are  offered  to  the  Amer- 
ican public  at  this  time  when  all  glimpses  of 
the  land  that  Columbus  sailed  to  find  are  of 
especial  interest  to  the  modern  possessors 
of  the  land  he  really  did  discover. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Baboo's  Good  Tiger 9 

Baboo's  Pirates 28 

How  we  Played  Robinson  Crusoe  ....        47 

The  Sarong ,66 

The  Kris 74 

The  White  Rajah  of  Borneo  .          .          .          .81 

Amok!     .  ioi 

Lepas's  Revenge  .  .  .  .  •  .13° 
King  Solomon's  Mines  .  .  .  .  .147 

Busuk 181 

A  Crocodile  Hunt 200 

A  New  Year's  Day  in  Malaya  .  .  .  .219 
In  the  Burst  of  the  Southwest  Monsoon  .  .  .  230 
A  Pig  Hunt  on  Mount  Ophir  .  .  .254 

In  the  Court  of  Johore 270 

In  the  Golden  Chersonese  .  .  -  .  .293 
A  Fight  with  Illanum  Pirates  .  .  .  .321 

7 


TALES   OF  THE    MALAYAN  COAST 

FROM  PENANG  TO  THE  PHILIPPINES 


Baboo's   Good  Tiger 
ft  ®ale  of  tlje  Malacca  jungle 

A  BOO  DIN'S  first-born,  Baboo,  was  only 
'*•  •*•  four  years  old  when  he  had  his  fa- 
mous adventure  with  the  tiger  he  had  found 
sleeping  in  the  hot  lallang  grass  within  the 
distance  of  a  child's  voice  from  Aboo  Din's 
bungalow. 

For  a  long  time  before  that  hardly  a  day 
had  passed  but  Aboo  Din,  who  was  our  syce^ 
or  groom,  and  wore  the  American  colors 
proudly  on  his  right  arm,  came  in  from  the 
servants'  quarters  with  an  anxious  look  on  his 
kindly  brown  face  and  asked  respectfully  for 
the  tuan  (lord)  or  mem  (lady). 

"  What  is  it,  Aboo  Din  ? "  the  mistress 
would  inquire,  as  visions  of  Baboo  drowned 
in  the  great  Shanghai  jar,  or  of  Baboo  lying 

9 


io        Tales  of  the   Malayan   Coast 

crushed  by  a  boa  among  the  yellow  bamboos 
beyond  the  hedge,  passed  swiftly  through  her 
mind. 

"  Mem  see  Baboo  ? "  came  the  inevitable 
question. 

It  was  unnecessary  to  say  more.  At  once 
Ah  Minga,  the  "boy";  Zim,  the  cook;  the 
kebuns  (gardeners) ;  the  tukanayer  (water-boy), 
and  even  the  sleek  Hindu  dirzee,  who  sat 
sewing,  dozing,  and  chewing  betel-nut,  on  the 
shady  side  of  the  veranda,  turned  out  with  one 
accord  and  commenced  a  systematic  search  for 
the  missing  Baboo. 

Sometimes  he  was  no  farther  off  than  the 
protecting  screen  of  the  "compound"  hedge, 
or  the  cool,  green  shadows  beneath  the  bunga- 
low. But  oftener  the  government  Sikhs  had 
to  be  appealed  to,  and  Kampong  Glam  in 
Singapore  searched  from  the  great  market  to 
the  courtyards  of  Sultan  Ali.  It  was  useless 
to  whip  him,  for  whippings  seemed  only  to 
make  Baboo  grow.  He  would  lisp  serenely 


Baboo's  Good  Tiger 


as  Aboo  Din  took  down  the  rattan  withe  from 
above  the  door,  "Baboo  baniak  jahatl  "  (Baboo 
very  bad  !)  and  there  was  something  "so  charm- 
ingly impersonal  in  all  his  mischief,  that  we 
came  between  his  own  brown  body  and  the 
rod,  time  and  again.  There  was  nothing  dis- 
tinctive in  Baboo's  features  or  form.  To  the 
casual  observer  he  might  have  been  any  one 
of  a  half-dozen  of  his  playmates.  Like  them, 
he  went  about  perfectly  naked,  his  soft,  brown 
skin  shining  like  polished  rosewood  in  the 
fierce  Malayan  sun. 

His  hair  was  black,  straight,  and  short,  and 
his  eyes  as  black  as  coals.  Like  his  compan- 
ions, he  stood  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  and 
could  carry  a  pail  of  water  on  his  head  without 
spilling  a  drop. 

He,  too,  ate  rice  three  times  a  day.  It 
puffed  him  up  like  a  little  old  man,  which 
added  to  his  grotesqueness  and  gave  him  a 
certain  air  of  dignity  that  went  well  with  his 
features  when  they  were  in  repose.  Around 


12        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

his  waist  he  wore  a  silver  chain  with  a  silver 
heart  suspended  from  it.  Its  purpose  was  to 
keep  off  the  evil  spirits. 

There  was  always  an  atmosphere  of  sandal- 
wood  and  Arab  essence  about  Baboo  that 
reminded  me  of  the  holds  of  the  old  sailing- 
ships  that  used  to  come  into  Boston  harbor 
from  the  Indies.  I  think  his  mother  must 
have  rubbed  the  perfumes  into  his  hair  as 
the  one  way  of  declaring  to  the  world  her 
affection  for  him.  She  could  not  give  him 
clothes,  or  ornaments,  or  toys :  such  was  not 
the  fashion  of  Baboo's  race.  Neither  was  he 
old  enough  to  wear  the  silk  sarong  that  his 
Aunt  Fatima  had  woven  for  him  on  her 
loom. 

Baboo  had  been  well  trained,  and  however 
lordly  he  might  be  in  the  quarters,  he  was 
marked  in  his  respect  to  the  mistress.  He 
would  touch  his  forehead  to  the  red  earth 
when  I  drove  away  of  a  morning  to  the 
office ;  though  the  next  moment  I  might  catch 


Baboo's  Good  Tiger  13 

him  blowing  a  tiny  ball  of  clay  from  his 
sumpitan  into  the  ear  of  his  father,  the  syce^ 
as  he  stood  majestically  on  the  step  behind 
me. 

Baboo  went  to  school  for  two  hours  every 
day  to  a  fat  old  Arab  penager,  or  teacher, 
whose  schoolroom  was  an  open  stall,  and 
whose  only  furniture  a  bench,  on  which  he 
sat  cross-legged,  and  flourished  a  whip  in 
one  hand  and  a  chapter  of  the  Koran  in 
the  other. 

There  were  a  dozen  little  fellows  in  the 
school ;  all  naked.  They  stood  up  in  line, 
and  in  a  soft  musical  treble  chanted  in 
chorus  the  glorious  promises  of  the  Koran, 
even  while  their  eyes  wandered  from  the 
dusky  corner  where  a  cheko  lizard  was 
struggling  with  an  atlas  moth,  to  the  frantic 
gesticulations  of  a  naked  Hindu  who  was 
calling  his  meek-eyed  bullocks  hard  names 
because  they  insisted  on  lying  down  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  for  their  noonday  siesta. 


14        Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

Baboo's  father,  Aboo  Din,  was  a  Hadji, 
for  he  had  been  to  Mecca.  When  nothing 
else  could  make  Baboo  forget  the  effects  of 
the  green  durian  he  had  eaten,  Aboo  Din 
would  take  the  child  on  his  knees  and  sing 
to  him  of  his  trip  to  Mecca,  in  a  quaint, 
monotonous  voice,  full  of  sorrowful  quavers. 
Baboo  believed  he  himself  could  have  left 
Singapore  any  day  and  found  Mecca  in  the 
dark. 

We  had  been  living  some  weeks  in  a 
government  bungalow,  fourteen  miles  from 
Singapore,  across  the  island  that  looks  out 
on  the  Straits  of  Malacca.  The  fishing  and 
hunting  were  excellent.  I  had  shot  wild 
pig,  deer,  tapirs,  and  for  some  days  had 
been  getting  ready  to  track  down  a  tiger 
that  had  been  prowling  in  the  jungle  about 
the  bungalow. 

But  of  a  morning,  as  we  lay  lazily  chat- 
ting in  our  long  chairs  behind  the  bamboo 
chicks,  the  cries  of  "  Harimau  I  Harimau  !  " 


Baboo's  Good  Tiger  15 

and  "  Baboo "  came  up  to  us  from  the 
servants1  quarters. 

Aboo  Din  sprang  over  the  railing  of  the 
veranda,  and  without  stopping  even  to  touch 
the  back  of  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  cried,  — 

"  Tuan  Consul,  tiger  have  eat  chow  dog  and 
got  Baboo  ! " 

Then  he  rushed  into  the  dining  room, 
snatched  up  my  Winchester  and  cartridge-belt, 
and  handed  them  to  me  with  a  "  Lekas 
(quick) !  Come  !  " 

He  sprang  back  off  the  veranda  and  ran  to 
his  quarters  where  the  men  were  arming  them- 
selves with  ugly  krises  and  heavy  parangs. 

I  had  not  much  hope  of  finding  the  tiger, 
much  less  of  rescuing  Baboo,  dead  or  alive. 
The  jungle  loomed  up  like  an  impassable  wall 
on  all  three  sides  of  the  compound,  so  dense, 
compact,  and  interwoven,  that  a  bird  could  not 
fly  through  it.  Still  I  knew  that  my  men,  if 
they  had  the  courage,  could  follow  where  the 
tiger  led,  and  could  cut  a  path  for  me. 


1 6        Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

Aboo  Din  unloosed  a  half-dozen  pariah 
dogs  that  we  kept  for  wild  pig,  and  led  them 
to  the  spot  where  the  tiger  had  last  lain.  In 
an  instant  the  entire  pack  sent  up  a  doleful 
howl  and  slunk  back  to  their  kennels. 

Aboo  Din  lashed  them  mercilessly  and 
drove  them  into  the  jungle,  where  he  followed 
on  his  hands  and  knees.  I  only  waited  to 
don  my  green  kaki  suit  and  canvas  shooting 
hat  and  despatch  a  man  to  the  neighboring 
kampong,  or  village,  to  ask  the  punghulo  (chief) 
to  send  me  his  shikar is ,  or  hunters.  Then  I 
plunged  into  the  jungle  path  that  my  kebuns 
had  cut  with  their  keen  parangs.,  or  jungle- 
knives.  Ten  feet  within  the  confines  of  the 
forest  the  metallic  glare  of  the  sun  and  the 
pitiless  reflections  of  the  China  Sea  were  lost 
in  a  dim,  green  twilight.  Far  ahead  I  could 
hear  the  half-hearted  snarls  of  the  cowardly, 
deserting  curs,  and  Aboo  Din's  angry  voice 
rapidly  exhausting  the  curses  of  the  Koran  on 
their  heads. 


Baboo's  Good  Tiger  17 

My  men,  who  were  naked  save  for  a 
cotton  sarong  wound  around  their  waists, 
slashed  here  a  rubber-vine,  there  a  thorny 
rattan,  and  again  a  mass  of  creepers  that 
were  as  tenacious  as  iron  ropes,  all  the  time 
pressing  forward  at  a  rapid  walk.  Ofttimes 
the  trail  led  from  the  solid  ground  through 
a  swamp  where  grew  great  sago  palms,  and 
out  of  which  a  black,  sluggish  stream  flowed 
toward  the  straits.  Gray  iguanas  and  pen- 
dants of  dove  orchids  hung  from  the  limbs 
above,  and  green  and  gold  lizards  scuttled 
up  the  trees  at  our  approach. 

At  the  first  plot  of  wet  ground  Aboo  Din 
sent  up  a  shout,  and  awaited  my  coming. 
I  found  him  on  his  hands  and  knees,  gaz- 
ing stupidly  at  the  prints  in  the  moist  earth. 

"Tuan,"  he  shouted,  "see  Baboo's  feet, 
one  —  two  —  three  —  more  !  Praise  be  to 
Allah ! " 

I  dropped  down  among  the  lily-pads  and 
pitcher-plants  beside  him.  There,  sure 


1 8        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

enough,  close  by  the  catlike  footmarks  of 
the  tiger,  was  the  perfect  impression  of 
one  of  Baboo's  bare  feet.  Farther  on  was 
the  imprint  of  another,  and  then  a  third. 
Wonderful !  The  intervals  between  the  sev- 
eral footmarks  were  far  enough  apart  for 
the  stride  of  a  man ! 

"  Apa  ?  "  (What  does  it  mean  ?)  I  said. 

Aboo  Din  tore  his  hair  and  called  upon 
Allah  and  the  assembled  Malays  to  witness 
that  he  was  the  father  of  this  Baboo,  but 
that,  in  the  sight  of  Mohammed,  he  was 
innocent  of  this  witchcraft.  He  had  striven 
from  Hari  Rahmadan  to  Hari  Rahmanan  to 
bring  this  four-year-old  up  in  the  light  of 
the  Koran,  but  here  he  was  striding  through 
the  jungle,  three  feet  and  more  at  a  step, 
holding  to  a  tiger's  tail ! 

I  shouted  with  laughter  as  the  truth  dawned 
upon  me.  It  must  be  so,  —  Baboo  was  alive. 
His  footprints  were  before  me.  He  was  being 
dragged  through  the  jungle  by  a  full-grown 


Baboo's  Good  Tiger  19 

Malayan  tiger !  How  else  explain  his  impos- 
sible strides,  overlapping  the  beast's  marks  ! 

Aboo  Din  turned  his  face  toward  Mecca, 
and  his  lips  moved  in  prayer. 

"  May  Allah  be  kind  to  this  tiger ! "  he 
mumbled.  "  He  is  in  the  hands  of  a  witch. 
We  shall  find  him  as  harmless  as  an  old  cat. 
Baboo  will  break  out  his  teeth  with  a  club 
of  billion  wood  and  bite  off  his  claws  with 
his  own  teeth.  Allah  is  merciful ! " 

We  pushed  on  for  half  an  hour  over  a 
dry,  foliage-cushioned  strip  of  ground  that 
left  no  trace  of  the  pursued.  At  the  second 
wet  spot  we  dashed  forward  eagerly  and 
scanned  the  trail  for  signs  of  Baboo,  but 
only  the  pads  of  the  tiger  marred  the  surface 
of  the  slime. 

Aboo  Din  squatted  at  the  root  of  a  huge 
mangrove  and  broke  forth  into  loud  lamen- 
tations, while  the  last  remaining  cur  took  ad- 
vantage of  his  preoccupation  to  sneak  back 
on  the  homeward  trail. 


2o        Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

"  Aboo,"  I  commanded  sarcastically,  "per- 
gie  I  (move  on ! )  Baboo  is  a  man  and  a 
witch.  He  is  tired  of  walking,  and  is  riding 
on  the  back  of  the  tiger ! " 

Aboo  gazed  into  my  face  incredulously  for 
a  moment ;  then,  picking  up  his  parang  and 
tightening  his  sarong^  strode  on  ahead  without 
a  word. 

At  noon  we  came  upon  a  sandy  stretch  of 
soil  that  contained  a  few  diseased  cocoanut 
palms,  fringed  by  a  sluggish  lagoon,  and  a 
great  banian  tree  whose  trunk  was  hardly 
more  than  a  mass  of  interlaced  roots.  A 
troop  of  long-armed  wab-wab  monkeys  were 
scolding  and  whistling  within  its  dense  foliage 
with  surprising  intensity.  Occasionally  one 
would  drop  from  an  outreaching  limb  to  one 
of  the  pendulous  roots,  and  then,  with  a 
shrill  whistle  of  fright,  spring  back  to  the 
protection  of  his  mates. 

A  Malay  silenced  them  by  throwing  a  half- 
ripe  cocoanut  into  the  midst  of  the  tree,  and 


Baboo's  Good  Tiger  21 

we  moved  on  to  the  shade  of  the  sturdiest 
palm.  There  we  sat  down  to  rest  and  eat 
some  biscuits  softened  in  the  milk  of  a  cocoa- 
nut. 

"  There  is  a  boa  in  the  roots  of  the  banian, 
Aboo,"  I  said,  looking  longingly  toward  its 
deep  shadow. 

He  nodded  his  head,  and  drew  from  the 
pouch  in  the  knot  in  his  sarong  a  few  broken 
fragments  of  areca  nut.  These  he  wrapped 
in  a  lemon  leaf  well  smeared  with  lime,  and 
tucked  the  entire  mass  into  the  corner  of 
his  mouth. 

In  a  moment  a  brilliant  red  juice  dyed  his 
lips,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  in  happy  con- 
tentment, oblivious,  for  the  time,  of  the  sand 
and  fallen  trunks  that  seemed  to  dance  in  the 
parching  rays  of  the  sun,  oblivious,  even,  of 
the  loss  of  his  first-born. 

I  was  revolving  in  my  mind  whether  there 
was  any  use  in  continuing  the  chase,  which  I 
would  have  given  up  long  before,  had  I  not 


22         Tales  of  the   Malayan   Coast 

known  that  a  tiger  who  has  eaten  to  repletior 
is  both  timid  and  lazy.  This  one  had  cer 
tainly  breakfasted  on  a  dog  or  on  some  ani 
mal  before  encountering  Baboo. 

I  had  hoped  that  possibly  the  barking  oi 
the  curs  might  have  caused  him  to  drop  th< 
child,  and  make  off  where  pursuit  would  b< 
impossible ;  but  so  far  we  had,  after  those  foot 
prints,  found  neither  traces  of  Baboo  alive 
nor  the  blood  which  should  have  been  seer 
had  the  tiger  killed  the  child. 

Suddenly  a  long,  pear-shaped  mangrove 
pod  struck  me  full  in  the  breast.  I  sprang 
up  in  surprise,  for  I  was  under  a  cocoanu 
tree,  and  there  was  no  mangrove  nearer  thar 
the  lagoon. 

A  Malay  looked  up  sleepily,  and  pointec 
toward  the  wide-spreading  banian. 

"Monkey,  Tuan ! " 

My  eyes  followed  the  direction  indicated 
and  could  just  distinguish  a  grinning  face 
among  the  interlacing  roots  at  the  base  of 


Baboo's  Good  Tiger  23 

the  tree.  So  I  picked  up  the  green,  dartlike 
end  of  the  pod,  and  took  careful  aim  at  the 
brown  face  and  milk-white  teeth. 

Then  it  struck  me  as  peculiar  that  a  mon- 
key, after  all  the  evidence  of  fright  we  had  so 
lately  witnessed,  should  seek  a  hiding-place 
that  must  be  within  easy  reach  of  its  greatest 
enemy,  the  boa-constrictor. 

Aboo  Din  had  aroused  himself,  and  was 
looking  intently  in  the  same  direction.  Be- 
fore I  could  take  a  step  toward  the  tree  he 
had  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  was  bounding 
across  the  little  space,  shouting,  "  Baboo  ! 
Baboo!" 

The  small  brown  face  instantly  disappeared, 
and  we  were  left  staring  blankly  at  a  dark 
opening  into  the  heart  of  the  woody  maze. 
Then  we  heard  the  small,  well-known  voice 
of  Baboo :  — 

"  Tabek  (greeting),  Tuan  !  Greeting,  Aboo 
Din !  Tuan  Consul  no  whip,  Baboo  come 
out." 


24        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

Aboo  Din  ran  his  long,  naked  arm  into  the 
opening  in  pursuit  of  his  first-born  —  the 
audacious  boy  who  would  make  terms  with 
his  white  master ! 

"  Is  it  not  enough  before  Allah  that  this 
son  should  cause  me,  a  Hadji,  to  curse  daily, 
but  now  he  must  bewitch  tigers  and  dictate 
terms  to  the  Tuan  and  to  me,  his  father  ?  He 
shall  feel  the  strength  of  my  wrist ;  I  will  — 

0  Allah ! " 

Aboo  snatched  forth  his  arm  with  a  howl 
of  pain.  One  of  his  fingers  was  bleeding  pro- 
fusely, and  the  marks  of  tiny  teeth  showed 
plainly  where  Baboo  had  closed  them  on  the 
offending  hand. 

" Biak,  Baboo,  maril  "  (Good,  come  forth!) 

1  said. 

First  the  round,  soft  face  of  the  small  mis- 
creant appeared ;  then  the  head,  and  then  the 
naked  little  body.  Aboo  Din  grasped  him  in 
his  arms,  regardless  of  his  former  threats,  or 
of  the  blood  that  was  flowing  from  his  wounds. 


Baboo's  Good  Tiger  25 

Then,  amid  caresses  and  promises  to  Allah  to 
kill  fire-fighting  cocks,  the  father  hugged  and 
kissed  Baboo  until  he  cried  out  with  pain. 

After  each  Malay  had  taken  the  little  fel- 
low in  his  arms,  I  turned  to  Baboo  and  said, 
while  I  tried  to  be  severe, — 

"  Baboo,  where  is  tiger  ?  " 

"Sudab  mati  (dead),  Tuan,"  he  answered  with 
dignity.  "  Tiger  over  there,  Tuan.  Sladang 
kill.  I  hid  here  and  wait  for  Aboo  Din  !  " 

He  touched  his  forehead  with  the  back  of 
his  brown  palm.  There  was  nothing,  either 
in  the  little  fellow's  bearing  or  words,  that 
betrayed  fear  or  bravado.  It  was  only  one 
mishap  more  or  less  to  him. 

We  followed  Baboo's  lead  to  the  edge  of 
the  jungle,  and  there,  stretched  out  in  the  hot 
sand,  lay  the  great,  tawny  beast,  stamped  and 
pawed  until  he  was  almost  unrecognizable. 

All  about  him  were  the  hoof-marks  of  the 
great  sladang^  the  fiercest  and  wildest  animal 
of  the  peninsula  —  the  Malayan  bull  that  will 


26        Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

charge  a  tiger,  a  black  lion,  a  boa,  and  even  a 
crocodile,  on  sight.  Hunters  will  go  miles  to 
avoid  one  of  them,  and  a  herd  of  elephants  will 
go  trumpeting  away  in  fear  at  their  approach. 

"  Kucbing  besar  (big  cat)  eat  Baboo's  chow 
dog,  then  sleep  in  lallang  grass,"  —  this  was 
the  child's  story.  "  Baboo  find,  and  say, 
( Bagus  kuching  (pretty  kitty),  see  Baboo's 
doll?'  Kuching  no  like  Baboo's  doll  mem 
consul  give.  Kuching  run  away.  Baboo 
catch  tail,  run  too.  Kuching  go  long  ways. 
Baboo  'fraid  Aboo  Din  whip  and  tell  kuch- 
ing must  go  back.  Kuching  pick  Baboo  up 
in  mouth  when  Baboo  let  go. 

"  Kuching  hurt  Baboo.  Baboo  stick  fin- 
gers in  kuching's  eye.  Kuching  no  more  hurt 
Baboo.  Kuching  stop  under  banian  tree  and 
sleep.  Big  sladang  come,  fight  kuching. 
Baboo  sorry  for  good  kuching.  Baboo  hid 
from  sladang)  —  Aboo  Din  no  whip  Baboo  ?  " 

His  voice  dropped  to  a  pathetic  little 
quaver,  and  he  put  up  his  hands  with  an 


Baboo's  Good  Tiger  27 

appealing  gesture ;  but  his  brown  legs  were 
drawn  back  ready  to  flee  should  Aboo  Din 
make  one  hostile  move. 

"  Baboo,"  I  said,  "  you  are  a  hero  !" 

Baboo  opened  his  little  black  eyes,  but  did 
not  dispute  me. 

"You  shall  go  to  Mecca  when  you  grow  up, 
and  become  a  Hadji,  and  when  you  come  back 
the  high  kadi  shall  take  you  in  the  mosque 
and  make  a  kateeb  of  you,"  said  I.  "  Now 
put  your  forehead  to  the  ground  and  thank 
the  good  Allah  that  the  kuching  had  eaten 
dog  before  he  got  you." 

Baboo  did  as  he  was  told,  but  I  think  tha^ 
in  his  heart  he  was  more  grateful  that  for  once 
he  had  evaded  a  whipping  than  for  his  remark- 
able escape.  A  little  later  the  pungbulo  came 
up  with  a  half-dozen  shikaris,  or  hunters,  and 
a  pack  of  hunting  dogs.  The  men  skinned 
the  mutilated  carcass  of  the  only  "  good  tiger  " 
I  met  during  my  three  years'  hunting  in  the 
jungles  of  this  strange  old  peninsula. 


Baboo's    Pirates 
atotoenture  in  tfie  parang  Hi 


A  •  AHERE  was  a  scuffle  in  the  outer  office, 

-•-      and    a    thin,    piping   voice    was    calling 

down    all    the    curses    of    the    Koran    on    the 

heads   of  my  great  top-heavy  Hindu  guards. 

"  Sons  of  dogs,"  I  heard  in  the  most 
withering  contempt,  "  I  will  see  the  Tuan 
Consul.  Know  he  is  my  father." 

A  tall  Sikh,  with  his  great  red  turban 
awry  and  his  brown  kaki  uniform  torn  and 
soiled,  pushed  through  the  bamboo  chicks 
and  into  my  presence. 

He  was  dragging  a  small  bit  of  naked 
humanity  by  the  folds  of  its  faded  cotton 
sarong. 

The  powerful  soldier  was  hot  and  flushed, 
and  a  little  stream  of  blood  trickling  from 

28 


Baboo's  Pirates  29 

his  finger  tips  showed  where  they  had  come 
in  contact  with  his  captive's  teeth.  It  was 
as  though  an  elephant  had  been  worried  by 
a  pariah  cur. 

"Your  Excellency,"  he  said,  salaaming  and 
gasping  for  breath. 

"  It  is  Baboo,  the  Harimau-Anak  !  " 

Baboo  wrenched  from  the  guard's  grasp 
and  glided  up  to  my  desk.  The  back  of  his 
open  palm  went  to  his  forehead  and  his  big 
brown  eyes  looked  up  appealingly  into  mine. 

"What  is  it,  Tiger-Child?"  I  asked,  be- 
stowing on  him  the  title  the  Malays  of 
Kampong  Glam  had  given  him  as  a  perpet- 
ual reminder  of  his  famous  adventure. 

Dimples  came  into  either  tear-stained 
cheek.  He  smoothed  out  the  rents  in  his 
small  sarong,  and  without  deigning  to  notice 
his  late  captor,  said  in  a  soft  sing-song 
voice :  — 

"Tuan  Consul,  Baboo  want  to  go  with  the 
Heaven-Born  to  Pahang.  Baboo  six  years 


30        Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

old,  —  can  fight  pirates  like  Aboo  Din,  the 
father.  May  Mohammed  make  Tuan  as 
odorous  as  musk  !  " 

"You  are  a  boaster  before  Allah,  Baboo," 
I  said,  smiling. 

Baboo  dropped  his  head  in  perfectly  simu- 
lated contrition. 

"  I  have  thought  much,  Tuan." 

News  had  come  to  me  that  an  American 
merchant  ship  had  been  wrecked  near  the 
mouth  of  the  Pahang  River,  and  that  the 
Malays,  who  were  at  the  time  in  revolt 
against  the  English  Resident,  had  taken  pos- 
session of  its  cargo  of  petroleum  and  made 
prisoners  of  the  crew. 

I  had  asked  the  colonial  governor  for  a 
guard  of  five  Sikhs  and  a  launch,  that  I 
might  steam  up  the  coast  and  investigate  the 
alleged  outrage  before  appealing  officially  to 
the  British  government. 

Of  course  Baboo  went,  much  to  the  dis- 
gust of  Aboo  Din,  the  syce. 


BABOO    AND    THE    SIKH 

"  It  was  as  though   an  elephant  had  been  worried  by  a 
pariah   cur ' ' 


Baboo's  Pirates  31 

I  never  was  able  to  refuse  the  little  fellow 
anything,  and  I  knew  if  I  left  him  behind 
he  would  be  revenged  by  running  away. 

I  had  vowed  again  and  again  that  Baboo 
should  stay  lost  the  next  time  he  indulged 
in  his  periodical  vanishing  act,  but  each  time 
when  night  came  and  Aboo  Din,  the  syce, 
and  Fatima,  the  mother,  crept  pathetically 
along  the  veranda  to  where  I  was  smoking 
and  steeling  my  heart  against  the  little  rascal, 
I  would  snatch  up  my  cork  helmet  and  spring 
into  my  cart,  which  Aboo  Din  had  kept 
waiting  inside  the  stables  for  the  moment 
when  I  should  relent. 

Since  Baboo  had  become  a  hero  and  earned 
the  appellation  of  the  Harimau-Anak,  his 
vanity  directed  his  footsteps  toward  Kam- 
pong  Glam,  the  Malay  quarter  of  Singapore. 
Here  he  was  generally  to  be  found,  seated 
on  a  richly  hued  Indian  rug,  with  his  feet 
drawn  up  under  him,  amid  a  circle  of  admir- 
ing shopkeepers,  syces,  kebuns,  and  fisher- 


32        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

men,  narrating  for  the  hundredth  time  how 
he  had  been  caught  at  Changi  by  a  tiger, 
carried  through  the  jungle  on  its  back  until 
he  came  to  a  great  banian  tree,  into  which 
he  had  crawled  while  the  tiger  slept,  how  a 
sladang  (wild  bull)  came  out  of  the  lagoon 
and  killed  the  tiger,  and  how  Tuan  Consul 
and  Aboo  Din,  the  father,  had  found  him 
and  kissed  him  many  times. 

Often  he  enlarged  on  the  well-known  story 
and  repeated  long  conversations  that  he  had 
carried  on  with  the  tiger  while  they  were 
journeying  through  the  jungle. 

A  brass  lamp  hung  above  his  head  in 
which  the  cocoanut  oil  sputtered  and  burned 
and  cast  a  fitful  half-light  about  the  box-like 
stall. 

Only  the  eager  faces  of  the  listeners  stood 
out  clear  and  distinct  against  the  shadowy 
background  of  tapestries  from  Madras  and 
Bokhara,  soft  rich  rugs  from  Afghanistan  and 
Persia,  curiously  wrought  finger  bowls  of  brass 


Baboo's  Pirates  33 

and  copper  from  Delhi  and  Siam,  and  piles  of 
cunningly  painted  sarongs  from  Java. 

Close  against  a  naked  fisherman  sat  the 
owner  of  the  bazaar  in  tall,  conical  silk- 
plaited  hat  and  flowing  robes,  ministering  to 
the  wants  of  the  little  actor,  as  the  soft,  mo- 
notonous voice  paused  for  a  brief  instant  for 
the  tiny  cups  of  black  coffee. 

I  never  had  the  heart  to  interrupt  him  in 
the  midst  of  one  of  these  dramatic  recitals, 
but  would  stand  respectfully  without  the  cir- 
cle of  light  until  he  had  finished  the  last 
sentence. 

He  was  not  frightened  when  I  thrust  the 
squatting  natives  right  and  left,  and  he  did 
not  forget  to  arise  and  touch  the  back  of  his 
open  palm  to  his  forehead,  with  a  calm  and 
reverent,  "  Tabek,  Tuan  "  (Greeting,  my  lord). 

So  Baboo  went  with  us  to  fight  pirates. 
He    unrolled    his    mat    out    on    the    bow 
where   every    dash    of    warm    salt   water   wet 


34        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

his  brown  skin,  and  where  he  could  watch 
the  flying  fish  dash  across  our  way. 

He  was  very  quiet  during  the  two  days 
of  the  trip,  as  though  he  were  fully  conscious 
of  the  heavy  responsibility  that  rested  upon 
his  young  shoulders.  I  had  called  him  a 
boaster  and  it  had  cut  him  to  the  quick. 

We  found  the  wreck  of  the  Bunker  Hill 
on  a  sunken  coral  reef  near  the  mouth  of 
the  Pahang  River,  but  every  vestige  of  her 
cargo  and  stores  was  gone,  even  to  the  glass 
in  her  cabin  windows  and  the  brasses  on  her 
rails. 

We  worked  in  along  the  shore  and  kept 
a  lookout  for  camps  or  signals,  but  found 
none. 

I  decided  to  go  up  the  river  as  far  as  pos- 
sible in  the  launch  in  hope  of  coming  across 
some  trace  of  the  missing  crew,  although  I 
was  satisfied  that  they  had  been  captured  by 
the  noted  rebel  chief,  the  Orang  Kayah  of 
Semantan,  or  by  his  more  famous  lieutenant, 


Baboo's  Pirates  35 

the  crafty  Panglima  Muda  of  Jempol,  and 
were  being  held  for  ransom. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  we 
entered  the  mouth  of  the  Sungi  Pahang. 

Aboo  Din  advised  a  delay  until  the  next 
morning. 

"The  Orang  Kayah's  Malays  are  pirates, 
Tuan,"  he  said,  with  a  sinister  shrug  of  his 
bare  shoulders,  "  he  has  many  men  and  swift 
praus ;  the  Dutch,  at  Rio,  have  sold  them 
guns,  and  they  have  their  krises,  —  they 
are  cowards  in  the  day." 

I   smiled  at  the  syce  s  fears. 

I  knew  that  the  days  of  piracy  in  the 
Straits  of  Malacca,  save  for  an  occasional 
outbreak  of  high-sea  petty  larceny  on  a 
Chinese  lumber  junk  or  a  native  trader's 
tonkang,  were  past,  and  I  did  not  believe 
that  the  rebels  would  have  the  hardihood  to 
attack,  day  or  night,  a  boat,  however  unpro- 
tected, bearing  the  American  flag. 

For   an    hour   or    more    we   ran   along   be- 


36        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

tween  the  mangrove-bordered  shores  against 
a  swiftly  flowing,  muddy  current. 

The  great  tangled  roots  of  these  trees  stood 
up  out  of  the  water  like  a  fretwork  of  lace, 
and  the  interwoven  branches  above  our  heads 
shut  out  the  glassy  glare  of  the  sun.  We 
pushed  on  until  the  dim  twilight  faded  out, 
and  only  a  phosphorescent  glow  on  the  water 
remained  to  reveal  the  snags  that  marked  our 
course. 

The  launch  was  anchored  for  the  night 
close  under  the  bank,  where  the  maze  of 
mangroves  was  beginning  to  give  place  to 
the  solid  ground  and  the  jungle. 

Myriads  of  fireflies  settled  down  on  us  and 
hung  from  the  low  limbs  of  the  overhanging 
trees,  relieving  the  hot,  murky  darkness  with 
their  thousands  of  throbbing  lamps. 

From  time  to  time  a  crocodile  splashed  in 
the  water  as  he  slid  heavily  down  the  clayey 
bank  at  the  bow. 

In  the  trees  and  rubber-vines  all  about  us 


Baboo's  Pirates  37 

a  colony  of  long-armed  wah-wab  monkeys 
whistled  and  chattered,  and  farther  away  the 
sharp,  rasping  note  of  a  cicada  kept  up  a 
continuous  protest  at  our  invasion. 

At  intervals  the  long,  quivering  yell  of  a 
tiger  frightened  the  garrulous  monkeys  into 
silence,  and  made  us  peer  apprehensively 
toward  the  impenetrable  blackness  of  the 
jungle. 

Aboo  Din  came  to  me  as  I  was  arranging 
my  mosquito  curtains  for  the  night.  He 
was  casting  quick,  timid  glances  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  talked. 

"  Tuan,  I  no  like  this  place.  Too  close 
bank.  Ten  boat-lengths  down  stream  better. 
Baboo  swear  by  Allah  he  see  faces  behind 
trees,  —  once,  twice.  Baboo  good  eyes." 

I  shook  off  the  uncanny  feeling  that  the 
place  was  beginning  to  cast  over  me,  and 
turned  fiercely  on  the  faithful  Aboo  Din. 

He  slunk  away  with  a  low  salaam,  mutter- 
ing something  about  the  Heaven-Born  being 


38        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

all  wise,  and  later  I  saw  him  in  deep  con- 
verse with  his  first-born  under  a  palm- 
thatched  cadjang  on  the  bow. 

I  was  half  inclined  to  take  Aboo  Din's 
advice  and  drop  down  the  stream.  Then  it 
occurred  to  me  that  I  might  better  face  an 
imaginary  foe  than  the  whirlpools  and  sunken 
snags  of  the  Pahang. 

I  posted  sentinels  fore  and  aft  and  lay 
down  and  closed  my  eyes  to  the  legion  of 
fireflies  that  made  the  night  luminous,  and  my 
ears  to  the  low,  musical  chant  that  arose  fitfully 
from  among  my  Malay  servants  on  the  stern. 

The  Sikhs  were  big,  massive  fellows,  fully 
six  feet  tall,  with  towering  red  turbans  that 
accentuated  their  height  fully  a  foot. 

They  were  regular  artillery-men  from  Fort 
Canning,  and  had  seen  service  all  over  India. 

They  had  not  been  in  Singapore  long 
enough  to  become  acquainted  with  the  Malay 
language  or  character,  but  they  knew  their 
duty,  and  I  trusted  to  their  military  training 


Baboo's  Pirates  39 

rather  than  to  my  Malay's  superior  knowl- 
edge for  our  safety  during  the  night. 

I  found  out  later  that  the  cunning  in 
Baboo's  small  brown  ringer  was  worth  all 
the  precision  and  drill  in  the  Sikh  sergeant's 
great  body. 

I  fell  asleep  at  last,  lulled  by  the  tenderly 
crooned  promises  of  the  Koran,  and  the 
drowsy,  intermittent  prattle  of  the  monkeys 
among  the  varnished  leaves  above.  The 
night  was  intensely  hot ;  not  a  breath  of  air 
could  stir  within  our  living-cabin,  and  the 
cooling  moisture  which  always  comes  with 
nightfall  on  the  equator  was  lapped  up  by 
the  thirsty  fronds  above  our  heads,  so  that  I 
had  not  slept  many  hours  before  I  awoke 
dripping  with  perspiration,  and  faint. 

There  was  an  impression  in  my  mind  that 
I  had  been  awakened  by  the  falling  of  glass. 

The  Sikh  saluted  silently  as  I  stepped  out 
on  the  deck. 

It    lacked    some    hours    of  daylight,    and 


40        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

there  was  nothing  to  do  but  go  back  to  my 
bed,  vowing  never  again  to  camp  for  the 
night  along  the  steaming  shores  of  a  jungle- 
covered  stream. 

I  slept  but  indifferently ;  I  missed  the 
cooling  swish  of  the  punkah,  and  all  through 
my  dreams  the  crackle  and  breaking  of  glass 
seemed  to  mingle  with  the  insistent  buzz  of 
the  tiger-gnats. 

Baboo's  diminutive  form  kept  flitting  be- 
tween me  and  the  fireflies. 

The  first  half-lights  of  morning  were  strug- 
gling down  through  the  green  canopy  above 
when  I  was  brought  to  my  feet  by  the  dis- 
charge of  a  Winchester  and  a  long,  shrill 
cry  of  fright  and  pain. 

Before  I  could  disentangle  myself  from 
the  meshes  of  the  mosquito  net  I  could  see 
dimly  a  dozen  naked  forms  drop  lightly  on 
to  the  deck  from  the  obscurity  of  the  bank, 
followed  in  each  case  by  a  long,  piercing 
scream  of  pain. 


Baboo's  Pirates  41 

I  snatched  up  my  revolver  and  rushed 
out  on  to  the  deck  in  my  bare  feet. 

Some  one  grasped  me  by*  the  shoulder  and 
shouted :  — 

"  Jaga  biaky  biak,  Tuan  (be  careful,  Tuan), 
pirates  ! " 

I  recognized  Aboo  Din's  voice,  and  I 
checked  myself  just  as  my  feet  came  in  con- 
tact with  a  broken  beer  bottle. 

The  entire  surface  of  the  little  deck  was 
strewn  with  glittering  star-shaped  points  that 
corresponded  with  the  fragments  before  me. 

I  had  not  a  moment  to  investigate,  how- 
ever, for  in  the  gloom,  where  the  bow  of 
the  launch  touched  the  foliage-meshed  bank, 
a  scene  of  wild  confusion  was  taking  place. 

Shadowy  forms  were  leaping,  one  after 
another,  from  the  branches  above  on  to  the 
deck.  I  slowly  cocked  my  revolver,  doubt- 
ing my  senses,  for  each  time  one  of  the 
invaders  reached  the  deck  he  sprang  into 
the  air  with  the  long,  thrilling  cry  of  pain 


42        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

that  had  awakened  me,  and  with  another 
bound  was  on  the  bulwarks  and  over  the 
side  of  the  launch,  clinging  to  the  railing. 

With  each  cry,  Baboo's  mocking  voice 
came  out,  shrill  and  exultant,  from  behind 
a  pile  of  life-preservers.  "  O  Allah,  judge 
the  dogs.  They  would  kris  the  great  Tuan 
as  he  slept  —  the  pariahs  !  —  but  they  forgot 
so  mean  a  thing  as  Baboo ! " 

The  smell  of  warm  blood  filled  the  air, 
and  a  low  snarl  among  the  rubber-vines  re- 
vealed the  presence  of  a  tiger. 

I  felt  Aboo  Din's  hand  tremble  on  my 
shoulder. 

The  five  Sikhs  were  drawn  up  in  battle 
array  before  the  cabin  door,  waiting  for  the 
word  of  command.  I  glanced  at  them  and 
hesitated. 

"  Tid  *apa,  Tuan  "  (never  mind),  Aboo  Din 
whispered  with  a  proud  ring  in  his  voice. 

"  Baboo  blow  Orang  Kayah's  men  away 
with  the  breath  of  his  mouth." 


Baboo's  Pirates  43 

As  he  spoke  the  branches  above  the  bow 
were  thrust  aside  and  a  dark  form  hung  for 
an  instant  as  though  in  doubt,  then  shot 
straight  down  upon  the  corrugated  surface 
of  the  deck. 

As  before,  a  shriek  of  agony  heralded  the 
descent,  followed  by  Baboo's  laugh,  then  the 
dim  shape  sprang  wildly  upon  the  bulwark, 
lost  its  hold,  and  went  over  with  a  great 
splash  among  the  labyrinth  of  snakelike 
mangrove  roots. 

There  was  the  rushing  of  many  heavy 
forms  through  the  red  mud,  a  snapping  of 
great  jaws,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
almost  mortal  cry  that  arose  from  out  the 
darkness.  I  had  often  heard  it  when  pad- 
dling softly  up  one  of  the  wild  Malayan 
rivers. 

It  was  the  death  cry  of  a  wah-wah  monkey 
facing  the  cruel  jaws  of  a  crocodile. 

I  plunged  my  fingers  into  my  ears  to 
smother  the  sound.  I  understood  it  all 


44        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

now.  Baboo's  pirates,  the  dreaded  Orang 
Kayah's  rebels,  were  the  troop  of  monkeys 
we  had  heard  the  night  before  in  the  tam- 
busa  trees. 

"Baboo,"  I  shouted,  "come  here!  What 
does  this  all  mean  ? " 

The  Tiger-Child  glided  from  behind  the 
protecting  pile,  and  came  close  up  to  my  legs. 

"  Tuan,"  he  whimpered,  "  Baboo  see  many 
faces  behind  trees.  Baboo  'fraid  for  Tuan, 
—  Tuan  great  and  good,  —  save  Baboo  from 
tiger,  —  Baboo  break  up  all  glass  bottles  — 
old  bottles  —  Tuan  no  want  old  bottle — 
Baboo  and  Aboo  Din,  the  father,  put  them 
on  deck  so  when  Orang  Kayah's  men  come 
out  of  jungle  and  drop  from  trees  on  deck 
they  cut  their  feet  on  glass.  Baboo  is 
through  talking,  —  Tuan  no  whip  Baboo  !  " 

There  was  the  pathetic  little  quaver  in  his 
voice  that  I  knew  so  well. 

"  But  they  were  monkeys,  Baboo,  not 
pirates." 


Baboo's  Pirates  45 

Baboo  shrugged  his  brown  shoulders  and 
kept  his  eyes  on  my  feet. 

"  Allah  is  good  !  "  he  muttered. 

Allah  was  good ;  they  might  have  been 
pirates. 

The  snarl  of  the  tiger  was  growing  more 
insistent  and  near.  I  gave  the  order,  and 
the  boat  backed  out  into  mid-stream. 

As  the  sun  was  reducing  the  gloom  of  the 
sylvan  tunnel  to  a  translucent  twilight,  we 
floated  down  the  swift  current  toward  the 
ocean. 

I  had  given  up  all  hope  of  finding  the 
shipwrecked  men,  and  decided  to  ask  the 
government  to  send  a  gunboat  to  demand 
their  release. 

As  the  bow  of  the  launch  passed  the 
wreck  of  the  Bunker  Hill  and  responded  to 
the  long  even  swell  of  the  Pacific,  Baboo 
beckoned  sheepishly  to  Aboo  Din,  and 
together  they  swept  all  trace  of  his  adven- 
ture into  the  green  waters. 


46         Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

Among  the  souvenirs  of  my  sojourn  in 
Golden  Chersonese  is  a  bit  of  amber-colored 
glass  bearing  the  world-renowned  name  of 
a  London  brewer.  There  is  a  dark  stain  on 
one  side  of  it  that  came  from  the  hairy  foot 
of  one  of  Baboo's  "pirates." 


How  we  Played  Robinson  Crusoe 
tlje  £>trait$  of 


TWO  hours'  steam  south  from  Singapore, 
out  into  the  famous  Straits  of  Malacca, 
or  one  day's  steam  north  from  the  equator, 
stands  Raffles's  Lighthouse.  Sir  Stamford 
Raffles,  the  man  from  whom  it  took  its 
name,  rests  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  a 
heroic-sized  bronze  statue  of  him  graces  the 
centre  of  the  beautiful  ocean  esplanade  of 
Singapore,  the  city  he  founded. 

It  was  on  the  rocky  island  on  which  stands 
this  light,  that  we  —  the  mistress  and  I  — 
played  Robinson  Crusoe,  or,  to  be  nearer 
the  truth,  Swiss  Family  Robinson. 

It  was  hard  to  imagine,  I  confess,  that  the 
beautiful  steam  launch  that  brought  us  was 
a  wreck  ;  that  our  half-dozen  Chinese  ser- 

47 


48        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

vants  were  members  of  the  family  ;  that  the 
ton  of  impedimenta  was  the  flotsam  of  the 
sea;  that  the  Eurasian  keeper  and  his  at- 
tendants were  cannibals ;  but  we  closed  our 
eyes  to  all  disturbing  elements,  and  only  re- 
membered that  we  were  alone  on  a  sunlit 
rock  in  the  midst  of  a  sunlit  sea,  and  that 
the  dreams  of  our  childhood  were,  to  some 
extent,  realized. 

What  live  American  boy  has  not  had  the 
desire,  possibly  but  half-admitted,  to  some 
day  be  like  his  hero,  dear  old  Crusoe,  on  a 
tropical  island,  monarch  of  all,  hampered  by 
no  dictates  of  society  or  fashion  ?  I  admit 
my  desire,  and,  further,  that  it  did  not  leave 
me  as  I  grew  older. 

We  had  just  time  to  inspect  our  little 
island  home  before  the  sun  went  down,  far 
out  in  the  Indian  Ocean. 

Originally  the  island  had  been  but  a  barren, 
uneven  rock,  the  resting-place  for  gulls ;  but 
now  its  summit  has  been  made  flat  by  a 


How  we  Played  Robinson  Crusoe    49 

coating  of  concrete.  There  is  just  enough 
earth  between  the  concrete  and  the  rocky 
edges  of  the  island  to  support  a  circle  of 
cocoanut  trees,  a  great  almond  tree,  and  a 
queer-looking  banian  tree,  whose  wide-spread- 
ing arms  extend  over  nearly  half  the  little 
plaza.  Below  the  lighthouse,  and  set  back 
like  caves  into  the  side  of  the  island,  are  the 
kitchen  and  the  servants'  quarters,  a  covered 
passageway  connecting  them  with  the  rotunda 
of  the  tower,  in  which  we  have  set  our  dining 
table. 

Ah  Ming,  our  "  China  boy,"  seemed  to  be 
inveterate  in  his  determination  to  spoil  our 
Swiss  Family  Robinson  illusion.  We  were 
hardly  settled  before  he  came  to  us. 

"Mem"  (mistress),  "no  have  got  ice-e-blox. 
Ice-e  all  glow  away." 

"  Very  well,  Ming.  Dig  a  hole  in  the 
ground,  and  put  the  ice  in  it." 

"How  can  dig?  Glound  all  same,  hard 
like  ice-e." 


50        Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

"Well,  let  the  ice  melt,"  I  replied.  "Rob- 
inson Crusoe  had  no  ice." 

In  a  half-hour  Jim,  the  cook,  came  up 
to  speak  to  the  "Mem"  He  lowered  his 
cue,  brushed  the  creases  out  of  his  spotless 
shirt,  drew  his  face  down,  and  commenced :  — 

"  Mem,  no  have  got  chocolate,  how  can 
make  puddlin'  ? " 

I  laughed  outright.     Jim  looked  hurt. 

"Jim,  did  you  ever  hear  of  one  Crusoe?" 

"  No,  Tuan  I  "  (Lord.) 

"Well,  he  was  a  Tuan  who  lived  for  thirty 
years  without  once  eating  chocolate  'puddlin'.' 
We'll  not  eat  any /or  ten  days.  Sabe?" 

Jim  retired,  mortified  and  astonished. 

Inside  of  another  half-hour,  the  Tukang 
Ayer,  or  water-carrier,  arrived  on  the  scene. 
He  was  simply  dressed  in  a  pair  of  knee- 
breeches.  He  complained  of  a  lack  of  sil- 
ver polish,  and  was  told  to  pound  up  a 
stone  for  the  knives,  and  let  the  silver  alone. 

We  are  really  in   the  heart  of  a  small  ar- 


How  we  Played   Robinson  Crusoe    51 

chipelago.  All  about  us  are  verdure-covered 
islands.  They  are  now  the  homes  of  native 
fishermen,  but  a  century  ago  they  were  hid- 
ing-places for  the  fierce  Malayan  pirates 
whose  sanguinary  deeds  made  the  peninsula 
a  byword  in  the  mouths  of  Europeans. 

A  rocky  beach  extends  about  the  island 
proper,  contracting  and  expanding  as  the 
tide  rises  and  falls.  On  this  beach  a  hun- 
dred and  one  varieties  of  shells  glisten  in 
the  salt  water,  exposing  their  delicate  shades 
of  coloring  to  the  rays  of  the  sun.  Coral 
formations  of  endless  design  and  shape  come 
to  view  through  the  limpid  spectrum,  form- 
ing a  perfect  submarine  garden  of  wondrous 
beauty.  Through  the  shrubs,  branches,  ferns, 
and  sponges  of  coral,  the  brilliantly  colored 
fish  of  the  Southern  seas  sport  like  goldfish 
in  some  immense  aquarium. 

We  draw  out  our  chairs  within  the  pro- 
tection of  the  almond  tree,  and  watch  the 
sun  sink  slowly  to  a  level  with  the  masts  of 


52        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

a  bark  that  is  bound  for  Java  and  the  Bor- 
nean  coasts.  The  black,  dead  lava  of  our 
island  becomes  molten  for  the  time,  and  the 
flakes  of  salt  left  on  the  coral  reef  by  the 
outgoing  tide  are  filled  with  suggestions  of 
the  gold  of  the  days  of  '49.  A  faint  breeze 
rustles  among  the  long,  fan-like  leaves  of  the 
palm,  and  brings  out  the  rich  yellow  tints 
with  their  background  of  green.  A  clear, 
sweet  aroma  comes  from  out  the  almond 
tree.  The  red  sun  and  the  white  sheets  of 
the  bark  sail  away  together  for  the  Spice 
Islands  of  the  South  Pacific. 

We  sleep  in  a  room  in  the  heart  of  the 
lighthouse.  The  stairway  leading  to  it  is  so 
steep  that  we  find  it  necessary  to  hold  on 
to  a  knotted  rope  as  we  ascend.  Hundreds 
of  little  birds,  no  larger  than  sparrows,  dash 
by  the  windows,  flying  into  the  face  of  the 
gale  that  rages  during  the  night,  keeping  up 
all  the  time  a  sharp,  high  note  that  sounds 
like  wind  blowing  on  telegraph  wires. 


How  we  Played  Robinson  Crusoe    53 

Every  morning,  at  six  o'clock,  Ah  Ming 
clambers  up  the  perpendicular  stairway,  with 
tea  and  toast.  We  swallow  it  hurriedly, 
wrap  a  sarong  about  us,  and  take  a  dip  in 
the  sea,  the  while  keeping  our  eyes  open  for 
sharks.  Often,  after  a  bath,  while  stretched 
out  in  a  long  chair,  we  see  the  black  fins 
of  a  man-eater  cruising  just  outside  the  reef. 
I  do  not  know  that  I  ever  hit  one,  but  I 
have  used  a  good  deal  of  lead  firing  at  them. 

One  morning  we  started  on  an  exploring 
expedition,  in  the  keeper's  jolly-boat.  It  was 
only  a  short  distance  to  the  first  island,  a 
small  rocky  one,  with  a  bit  of  sandy  beach, 
along  which  were  scattered  the  charred  em- 
bers of  past  fires.  From  under  our  feet 
darted  the  grotesque  little  robber-crabs,  with 
their  stolen  shell  houses  on  their  backs.  A 
great  white  jellyfish,  looking  like  a  big 
tapioca  pudding,  had  been  washed  up  with 
the  tide  out  of  the  reach  of  the  sea,  and  a 
small  colony  of  ants  was  feasting  on  it. 


54        Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

We  did  not  try  to  explore  the  interior  of 
the  islet.  We  named  it  Fir  Island  from  its 
crown  of  fir-like  casuarina  trees,  which  sent 
out  on  every  breeze  a  balsamic  odor  that 
was  charged  with  far-away  New  England 
recollections. 

The  next  island  was  a  large  one.  The 
keeper  said  it  was  called  Pulo  Seneng,  or 
Island  of  Leisure,  and  held  a  little  kampongt 
or  village  of  Malays,  under  an  old  pungbulo, 
or  chief,  named  Wahpering.  We  found,  on 
nearing  the  verdure-covered  island,  that  it 
looked  much  larger  than  it  really  was.  The 
woods  grew  out  into  the  sea  for  a  quarter 
of  a  mile.  We  entered  the  wood  by  a  nar- 
row walled  inlet,  and  found  ourselves  for  the 
first  time  in  a  mangrove  swamp.  The  trees 
all  seemed  to  be  growing  on  stilts.  A  per- 
fect labyrinth  of  roots  stood  up  out  of  the 
water,  like  a  rough  scaffold,  on  which  rested 
the  tree  trunks,  high  and  dry  above  the 
flood.  From  the  limbs  of  the  trees  hung 


How  we  Played  Robinson   Crusoe    55 

the  seed  pods,  two  feet  in  length,  sharp- 
pointed  at  the  lower  end,  while  on  the 
upper  end,  next  to  the  tree,  was  a  russet 
pear-shaped  growth.  They  are  so  nicely 
balanced  that  when  in  their  maturity  they 
drop  from  the  branches,  they  fall  upright  in 
the  mud,  literally  planting  themselves. 

The  pungbulo's  house,  or  bungalow,  stood 
at  the  head  of  the  inlet.  The  old  man  — 
he  must  have  been  sixty  —  donned  his  best 
clothes,  relieved  his  mouth  of  a  great  red 
quid  of  betel,  and  came  out  to  welcome  us. 
He  gracefully  touched  his  forehead  with  the 
back  of  his  open  palm,  and  mumbled  the 
Malay  greeting:  — 

"  Tabek,  Tuan  ?  "  (How  are  you,  my 
lord  ?) 

When  the  keeper  gave  him  our  cards,  and 
announced  us  in  florid  language,  the  genial 
old  fellow  touched  his  forehead  again,  and 
in  his  best  Bugis  Malay  begged  the  great 
Rajah  and  Ranee  to  enter  his  humble  home. 


56        Tales  of  the   Malayan  Coast 

The  only  way  of  entering  a  Malay  home 
is  by  a  rickety  ladder  six  feet  high,  and 
through  a  four-foot  opening.  I  am  afraid 
that  the  great  "  Rajah  and  Ranee "  lost  some 
of  their  lately  acquired  dignity  in  accepting 
the  invitation. 

Wahpering's  bungalow,  other  than  being 
larger  and  roomier  than  the  ordinary  bunga- 
low, was  exactly  like  all  others  in  style  and 
architecture. 

It  was  built  close  to  the  water's  edge,  on 
palm  posts  six  feet  above  the  ground.  This 
was  for  protection  from  the  tiger,  from 
thieves,  from  the  water,  and  for  sanitary 
reasons.  Within  the  house  we  could  just 
stand  upright.  The  floor  was  of  split  bam- 
boo, and  was  elastic  to  the  foot,  causing  a 
sensation  which  at  first  made  us  step  care- 
fully. The  open  places  left  by  the  crossing 
of  the  bamboo  slats  were  a  great  conven- 
ience to  the  pungbulo 's  wives,  as  they  could 
sweep  all  the  refuse  of  the  house  through 


How  we  Played  Robinson   Crusoe    57 

them ;  they  might  also  be  a  great  accommo- 
dation to  the  funghulo  s  enemies,  if  he  had 
any,  for  they  could  easily  ascertain  the  exact 
mat  on  which  he  slept,  and  stab  him  with 
their  keen  krises  from  beneath. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  was  the  hand- 
loom  on  which  the  pungbulas  old  wife  was 
weaving  the  universal  article  of  dress,  the 
sarong. 

The  weaving  of  a  sarong  represents  the 
labor  of  twenty  days,  and  when  we  gave  the 
dried-up  old  worker  two  dollars  and  a  half 
for  one,  her  jrjyr^-stained  gums  broke  forth 
from  between  her  bright-red  lips  in  a  ghastly 
grin  of  pleasure. 

There  must  have  been  the  representatives 
of  at  least  four  generations  under  the  pung- 
hulo  s  hospitable  roof.  Men  and  women, 
alike,  were  dressed  in  the  skirt-like  sarong 
which  fell  from  the  waist  down;  above  that 
some  of  the  older  women  wore  another  gar- 
ment called  a  kabaya.  The  married  women 


5  8        Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

were  easily  distinguishable  by  their  swollen 
gums  and  filed  teeth. 

The  roof  and  sides  of  the  house  were  of 
attap.  This  is  made  from  the  long,  arrow- 
like  leaves  of  the  nipah  palm.  Unlike  its 
brother  paints  —  the  cocoa,  the  sago,  the  ga- 
mooty,  and  the  areca  —  the  nipah  is  short, 
and  more  like  a  giant  cactus  in  growth. 
Its  leaves  are  stripped  off  by  the  natives, 
then  bent  over  a  bamboo  rod  and  sewed 
together  with  fibres  of  the  same  palm. 
When  dry  they  become  glazed  and  water- 
proof. 

The  tall,  slender  areca  palm,  which  stands 
about  every  kampong,  supplies  the  natives  with 
their  great  luxury  —  an  acorn,  known  as  the 
betel-nut,  which,  when  crushed  and  mixed  with 
lime  leaves,  takes  the  place  of  our  chewing 
tobacco.  In  fact,  the  bright-red  juice  seen 
oozing  from  the  corners  of  a  Malay's  mouth 
is  as  much  a  part  of  himself  as  is  his  sarong 
or  kris.  Betel-nut  chewing  holds  its  own 


How  we  Played  Robinson   Crusoe    59 

against  the  opium  of  the  Chinese  and  the 
tobacco  of  the  European. 

As  soon  as  we  shook  hands  ceremoniously 
with  the  fungbulo  s  oldest  wife,  and  tabeked 
to  the  rest  of  his  big  family,  the  old  man 
scrambled  down  the  ladder,  and  sent  a  boy  up 
a  cocoanut  tree  for  some  fresh  nuts.  In  a 
moment  half  a  dozen  of  the  great,  oval,  green 
nuts  came  pounding  down  into  the  sand.  An- 
other little  fellow  snatched  them  up,  and  with 
a  sharp  parang,  or  hatchet-like  knife,  cut  away 
the  soft  shuck  until  the  cocoanut  took  the 
form  of  a  pyramid,  at  the  apex  of  which  he 
bored  a  hole,  and  a  stream  of  delicious,  cool 
milk  gurgled  out.  We  needed  no  second  in- 
vitation to  apply  our  lips  to  the  hole.  The 
meat  inside  was  so  soft  that  we  could  eat  it 
with  a  spoon.  The  cocoanut  of  commerce 
contains  hardly  a  suggestion  of  the  tender, 
fleshy  pulp  of  a  freshly  picked  nut. 

We  left  the  punghulo  s  house  with  the  old 
chief  in  the  bow  of  our  boat  —  he  insisted 


60        Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

upon  seeing  that  we  were  properly  announced 
to  his  subjects  —  and  proceeded  along  the 
coast  for  half  a  mile,  and  then  up  a  swampy 
lagoon  to  its  head. 

The  tall  tops  of  the  palms  wrapped  every- 
thing in  a  cool,  green  twilight.  The  waters 
of  the  lagoon  were  filled  with  little  bronze 
forms,  swimming  and  sporting  about  in  its 
tepid  depths  regardless  of  the  cruel  eyes  that 
gleamed  at  them  from  great  log-like  forms 
among  the  mangrove  roots. 

Dozens  of  naked  children  fled  up  the 
rickety  ladders  of  their  homes  as  we  ap- 
proached. Ring-doves  flew  through  the  trees, 
and  tame  monkeys  chattered  at  us  from  every 
corner.  The  men  came  out  to  meet  us,  and 
did  the  hospitalities  of  their  village;  and  when 
we  left,  our  boat  was  loaded  down  with  pres- 
ents of  fish  and  fruit. 

Almost  every  day  after  that  did  we  visit 
the  kampong,  and  were  always  welcomed  in  the 
same  cordial  manner. 


How  we  Played  Robinson   Crusoe    61 

Wahpering  was  tireless  in  his  attentions. 
He  kept  his  Sampan  Besar,  or  big  boat,  with 
its  crew  at  our  disposal  day  after  day. 

One  day  I  showed  him  the  American 
flag.  He  gazed  at  it  thoughtfully  and  said, 
"  Biak !  "  (Good.)  cc  How  big  your  coun- 
try ? "  I  tried  to  explain.  He  listened  for 
a  moment.  "  Big  as  Negri  Blanda  ?  "  (Hol- 
land.) I  laughed.  "  A  thousand  times 
larger ! "  The  old  fellow  shook  his  head 
sadly,  and  looked  at  me  reproachfully. 

"Tidab!  Tidab/"  (No,  no.)  "Rajah, 
Orang  Blanda  (Dutchman)  show  me  chart  of 
the  world.  Holland  all  red.  Take  almost 
all  the  world.  Rest  of  country  small,  small. 
All  in  one  little  corner.  How  can  Rajah 
say  his  country  big  ?  " 

There  was  no  denying  the  old  man's 
knowledge ;  I,  too,  had  seen  one  of  these 
Dutch  maps  of  the  world,  which  are  circu- 
lated in  Java  to  make  the  natives  think  that 
Holland  is  the  greatest  nation  on  earth. 


62         Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

One  day  glided  into  another  with  surpris- 
ing rapidity.  We  could  swim,  explore,  or  lie 
out  in  our  long  chairs  and  read  and  listlessly 
dream.  All  about  our  little  island  the  silver 
sheen  of  the  sea  was  checkered  with  sails. 
These  strange  native  craft  held  for  me  a 
lasting  fascination.  I  gazed  out  at  them  as 
they  glided  by  and  saw  in  them  some  of 
the  rose-colored  visions  of  my  youth.  Piracy, 
Indian  Rajahs,  and  spice  islands  seemed  to 
live  in  their  queer  red  sails  and  palm-matting 
roofs.  At  night  a  soft,  warm  breeze  blew 
from  off  shore  and  lulled  us  to  sleep  ere  we 
were  aware. 

One  morning  the  old  chief  made  us  a 
visit  before  we  were  up.  He  announced  his 
approach  by  a  salute  from  a  muzzle-loading 
musket.  I  returned  it  by  a  discharge  from 
my  revolver.  He  had  come  over  with  the 
morning  tide  to  ask  us  to  spend  the  day,  as 
his  guests,  wild-pig  hunting.  Of  course  we 
accepted  with  alacrity.  I  am  not  going  to 


How  we  Played  Robinson  Crusoe    63 

tell  you  how  we  found  all  the  able-bodied 
men  and  dogs  on  the  island  awaiting  us, 
how  they  beat  the  jungle  with  frantic  yells 
and  shouts  while  we  waited  on  the  opposite 
side,  or  even  how  many  pigs  we  shot.  It 
would  all  take  too  long. 

We  went  fishing  every  day.  The  many- 
colored  and  many-shaped  fish  we  caught 
were  a  constant  wonderment  to  us.  One 
was  bottle-green,  with  sky-blue  fins  and  tail, 
and  striped  with  lines  of  gold.  Its  skin  was 
stiff  and  firm  as  patent  leather.  Another 
was  pale  blue,  with  a  bright-red  proboscis 
two  inches  long.  We  caught  cuttle-fish 
with  great  lustrous  eyes,  long  jelly  feelers, 
and  a  plentiful  supply  of  black  fluid ;  squibs, 
prawns,  mullets,  crabs,  and  devil-fish.  These 
last  are  considered  great  delicacies  by  the  na- 
tives. We  had  one  fried.  Its  meat  was 
perfectly  white,  and  tasted  like  a  tallow 
candle. 

The    day    on    which    we    were    to    leave, 


64        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

Wahpering  brought  us  some  fruit  and  fish 
and  a  pair  of  ring-doves.  Motioning  me  to 
one  side,  he  whispered,  the  while  looking 
shyly  at  the  mistress,  "  Ranee  very  beauti- 
ful !  How  much  you  pay  ? "  I  was  stag- 
gered for  the  moment,  and  made  him  repeat 
his  question.  This  time  I  could  not  mis- 
take him.  "  How  much  you  pay  for  wife  ?  " 
He  gave  his  thumb  a  jerk  in  the  direction 
of  the  mistress.  I  saw  that  he  was  really 
serious,  so  I  collected  my  senses,  and  with 
a  practical,  businesslike  air  answered,  "  Two 
hundred  dollars."  The  old  fellow  sighed. 

"  The  great  Rajah  very  rich  !  I  pay  fifty 
for  best  wife." 

I  have  not  tried  to  tell  you  all  we  did  on 
our  tropical  island  playing  Robinson  Crusoe. 
I  have  only  tried  to  convey  some  little  im- 
pression of  a  happy  ten  days  that  will  ever 
be  remembered  as  one  more  of  those  glori- 
ous, Oriental  chapters  in  our  lives  which  are 
filled  with  the  gorgeous  colors  of  crimson 


How  we  Played  Robinson   Crusoe    65 

and  gold,  the  delicate  perfumes  of  spice- 
laden  breezes,  and  with  imperishable  visions 
of  a  strange,  old-world  life. 

They  are  chapters  that  we  can  read  over 
and  over  again  with  an  ever  increasing  inter- 
est as  the  years  roll  by 


The   Sarong 

Cljief  Garment 


NO  one  knows  who  invented  the  sarong. 
When  the  great  Sir  Francis  Drake 
skirted  the  beautiful  jungle-bound  shores  of 
that  strange  Asian  peninsula  which  seems 
forever  to  be  pointing  a  wondering  ringer 
into  the  very  heart  of  the  greatest  archipel- 
ago in  the  world,  he  found  its  inhabitants 
wearing  the  sarong.  After  a  lapse  of  three 
centuries  they  still  wear  it,  —  neither  Hindu 
invasion,  Mohammedan  conversion,  Chinese 
immigration,  nor  European  conquest  has  ever 
taken  from  them  their  national  dress.  Civil- 
ization has  introduced  many  articles  of  cloth- 
ing ;  but  no  matter  how  many  of  these  are 
adopted,  the  Malay,  from  his  Highness  the 
Sultan  of  Johore,  to  the  poorest  fisherman 

66 


The  Sarong  67 


of  a  squalid  kampong  on  the  muddy  banks 
of  a  mangrove-hidden  stream,  religiously 
wears  the  sarong. 

It  is  only  an  oblong  cloth,  this  fashion- 
surviving  garb,  from  two  to  four  feet  in 
width  and  some  two  yards  long,  sewn  to- 
gether at  the  ends.  It  looks  like  a  gingham 
bag  with  the  bottom  out.  The  wearer  steps 
into  it,  and  with  two  or  three  ingenious  twists 
tightens  it  round  the  waist,  thus  forming  a 
skirt  and,  at  the  same  time,  a  belt  in  which 
he  carries  the  kris,  or  snake-like  dagger,  the 
inevitable  pouch  of  areca  nut  for  chewing,  and 
the  few  copper  cents  that  he  dares  not  trust 
in  his  unlocked  hut.  The  man's  skirt  falls 
to  his  knees,  and  among  the  poor  class  forms 
his  only  article  of  dress,  while  the  woman's 
reaches  to  her  ankles  and  is  worn  in  connec- 
tion with  another  sarong  that  is  thrown  over 
her  head  as  a  veil,  so  that  when  she  is  abroad 
and  meets  one  of  the  opposite  sex  she  can, 
Moslem-like,  draw  it  about  her  face  in  the 


68        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

form  of  a  long,  narrow  slit,  showing  only  her 
coal-black  eyes  and  thinly  pencilled  eyebrows. 

In  style  or  design  the  sarong  never  changes. 
Like  the  tartan  of  the  Highlanders,  which  it 
greatly  resembles,  it  is  invariably  a  check  of 
gay  colors.  They  are  all  woven  of  silk  or 
cotton,  or  of  silk  and  cotton  mixed,  by  the 
native  women,  and  no  ^//^-thatched  home 
is  complete  without  its  hand-loom. 

One  day  we  crawled  up  the  narrow,  rickety 
ladder  that  led  into  the  two  by  four  opening 
of  old  Wahpering's  palm-shaded  home.  The 
little  fungbulO)  or  chief,  touched  his  forehead 
with  the  back  of  his  open  palm  as  we  advanced 
cautiously  over  the  open  bamboo  floor  toward 
his  old  wife,  who  was  seated  in  one  corner 
by  a  low,  horizontal  window,  weaving  a  sarong 
on  a  hand-loom.  She  looked  up  pleasantly 
with  a  soft  "  Tabek  "  (Greeting),  and  went  on 
throwing  her  shuttle  deftly  through  the  brill- 
iantly colored  threads.  The  sharp  bang  of 
the  dark,  kamooning-wood  bar  drove  the 


The  Sarong  69 


thread  in  place  and  left  room  for  another. 
Back  and  forth  flew  the  shuttle,  and  thread 
after  thread  was  added  to  the  fabric,  yet  no 
perceptible  addition  seemed  to  be  made. 

"  How  long  does  it  take  to  finish  it  ? "  I 
asked  in  Malay. 

"  Twenty  days,"  she  answered,  with  a  broad 
smile,  showing  her  black,  filed  teeth  and 
jryr^-stained  lips. 

The  red  and  brown  sarong  which  she  wore 
twisted  tightly  up  under  her  armpits  had  cost 
her  almost  a  month's  work ;  the  green  and 
yellow  one  her  chief  wore  about  his  waist,  a 
month  more;  the  ones  she  used  as  screens  to 
divide  the  interior  into  rooms,  and  those  of 
the  bevy  of  sons  and  daughters  of  all  ages  that 
crowded  about  us  each  cost  a  month's  more ; 
and  yet  the  labor  and  material  combined  in 
each  represented  less  than  two  dollars  of  our 
money  at  the  Bazaar  in  Singapore. 

I  had  not  the  heart  to  take  the  one  that 
she  offered  the  mistress,  but  insisted  on  giv- 


7o        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

ing  in  exchange  a  pearl-handled  penknife, 
which  the  chief  took,  with  many  a  touch  of 
his  forehead,  "  as  a  remembrance  of  the  con- 
descension of  the  Orang  American  Rajab" 

Wahpering's  wife  was  not  dressed  to  re- 
ceive us,  for  we  had  come  swiftly  up  the 
dim  lagoon,  over  which  her  home  was  built, 
and  had  landed  on  the  sandy  beach  unan- 
nounced. Had  she  known  that  we  were 
coming,  she  would  have  been  dressed  as  be- 
came the  wife  of  the  Pungbulo  of  Pulo  Seneng 
(Island  of  Leisure).  The  long,  black  hair 
would  have  been  washed  beautifully  clean 
with  the  juice  of  limes,  and  twisted  up  as  a 
crown  on  the  top  of  her  head.  In  it  would 
have  been  stuck  pins  of  the  deep-red  gold 
from  Mt.  Ophir,  and  sprays  of  jasmine  and 
cbumpaka.  Under  her  silken  sarong  would 
have  been  an  inner  garment  of  white  cotton, 
about  her  waist  a  zone  of  beaded  cloth  held 
in  front  by  an  oval  plate,  and  over  all 
would  have  been  thrown  a  long,  loose  dress- 


The  Sarong 


ing-gown,  called  the  kabaya,  falling  to  her 
knees  and  fastened  down  the  front  to  the 
silver  girdle  with  golden  brooches.  Her 
toes  would  have  been  covered  with  sandals 
cunningly  embroidered  in  colored  beads  and 
gold  tinsel. 

Wahpering,  too,  might  have  added  to  his 
sarong  a  thin  vest,  buttoned  close  up  to  the 
neck,  a  light  dimity  bajuy  or  jacket,  and  a 
pair  of  loose  silk  drawers.  They  made  no 
apology  for  their  appearance,  but  did  the 
honors  of  the  house  with  a  native  grace,  re- 
galing us  with  the  cool,  fresh  milk  of  the 
cocoanut,  and  the  delicious  globes  of  the 
mangosteens. 

The  glare  of  the  noonday  sun,  here  on 
the  equator,  is  inconceivable.  It  beats  down 
in  bald,  irregular  waves  of  heat  that  seem  to 
stifle  every  living  being  and  to  burn  the  foli- 
age to  a  cinder.  Even  the  sharp,  insistent 
whir  of  the  cicada  ceases  when  the  ther- 
mometer on  the  sunny  side  of  our  palm- 


72         Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

thatched  bungalow  reaches  155°.  If  I  am 
forced  to  go  outside,  I  don  my  cork  helmet, 
and  hold  a  paper  umbrella  above  it.  Even 
then,  after  I  have  gone  a  half-hour,  I  feel 
dizzy  and  sick.  I  pass  native  after  native, 
whose  only  head  covering,  if  they  have  any 
at  all  save  their  short-cut  black  hair,  is  a  hand- 
kerchief, stiffened,  and  tied  with  a  peculiar 
twist  on  the  head,  or  a  rimless  cap  with 
possibly  a  text  of  the  Koran  embroidered 
on  its  front.  It  is  only  when  they  are  on 
the  sea  from  early  morning  to  sunset,  that 
they  think  it  worth  while  to  protect  their 
heads  with  an  umbrella-shaped,  cane-worked 
head  frame  like  those  worn  by  the  natives 
of  Siam  and  China.  The  women  I  meet 
simply  draw  their  sarongs  more  closely  about 
their  heads  as  the  sun  ascends  higher  and 
higher  into  the  heavens,  and  go  clattering 
off  down  the  road  in  their  wooden  pattens, 
unconscious  of  my  envy  or  wonderment. 
The  sarong  is  more  to  the  Malay  than  is 


The  Sarong 


the  kilt  to  the  Scotchman.  It  is  his  dress  by 
day  and  his  covering  at  night.  He  uses  it 
as  a  sail  when  far  out  from  land  in  his 
cockle-shell  boat,  or  as  a  bag  in  which  to 
carry  his  provisions  when  following  an  ele- 
phant path  through  the  dense  jungle. 

The  checks,  in  its  design,  although  indis- 
tinguishable to  the  European,  differ  accord- 
ing to  his  tribe  or  clan,  and  serve  him  as  a 
means  of  identification  wherever  he  may  be 
on  the  peninsula. 

The  sarong  and  kris  are  distinctly  and 
solely  Malayan ;  they  are  shared  with  no 
other  country ;  they  are  to  be  placed  side 
by  side  with  the  green  turban  of  the  Moslem 
pilgrim  and  the  cimeter  of  the  Prophet. 

A  history  of  one,  like  the  history  of  the 
other,  embraces  all  that  is  tragical  or  romantic 
in  Malayan  story. 


The   Kris 
ijoto  tlje  spalai?0  use  it 


IN  an  old  dog-eared  copy  of  Monteith's 
Geography,  I  remember  a  picture  of  a 
half-dozen  pirate  prahus  attacking  a  merchant- 
man off  a  jungle-bordered  shore.  A  blazing 
sun  hung  high  in  the  heavens  above  the  fated 
ship,  and,  to  my  youthful  imagination,  seemed 
to  beat  down  on  the  tropical  scene  with  a 
fierce,  remorseless  intensity.  The  wedge- 
shaped  tops  of  some  palm-thatched  and 
palm-shaded  huts  could  just  be  seen,  set 
well  back  from  the  shore. 

I  used  to  think  that  if  I  were  a  boy  on 
that  ship,  I  would  slip  quietly  overboard, 
swim  ashore,  and  while  the  pirates  were  busy 
fighting,  I  would  set  fire  to  their  homes  and 
so  deliver  the  ship  from  their  clutches.  Little 

74 


The  Kris  75 


did  I  know  then  of  the  acres  of  bewildering 
mangrove  swamps  rilled  with  the  treacherous 
crocodiles  that  lie  between  the  low-water  line 
and  the  firm  ground  of  the  coast. 

But  always  the  most  striking  thing  in  the 
little  woodcut  to  me  were  the  curious,  snake- 
like  knives  that  the  naked  natives  held  in 
their  hands.  I  had  never  seen  anything  like 
them  before.  I  went  to  the  encyclopaedia 
and  found  that  the  name  of  the  knife  was 
spelled  kris  and  pronounced  creese. 

The  day-dreams  which  seemed  impossible 
in  the  days  of  Monteith's  Geography  have 
since  been  realized.  I  am  living,  perhaps, 
within  sight  of  the  very  place  where  the  scene 
of  the  picture  was  laid ;  for  it  was  supposed 
to  be  illustrative  of  the  Malay  Peninsula ; 
and,  as  I  write,  one  of  those  snake-like  krises 
lies  on  the  table  before  me.  It  is  a  hand- 
somer kris  than  those  used  by  the  actors  in 
that  much-studied  picture  of  my  youth. 
The  sheath  and  handle  are  of  solid  gold  — 


76        Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

a  rich  yellow  gold,  mined  at  the  foot  of 
Mount  Ophir,  the  very  same  mountain  so 
famous  in  Bible  history,  from  which  King 
Solomon  brought  "  gold,  peacocks'  feathers, 
and  monkeys."  The  wavy,  flame-like  blade 
is  veined  with  gold,  and  its  dull  silvery  sur- 
face is  damascened  with  as  much  care  as  was 
ever  taken  with  the  old  swords  of  Damas- 
cus. It  is  only  an  inch  in  width  and  a  foot 
in  length  and  does  not  look  half  as  danger- 
ous as  a  Turkish  cimeter ;  yet  it  has  a  his- 
tory that  would  put  that  of  the  tomahawk 
or  the  scalping-knife  to  shame.  Many  a 
fat  Chinaman,  trading  between  the  Java  is- 
lands and  Amoy,  has  felt  its  keen  edge  at 
his  throat  and  seen  his  rich  cargo  of  spices 
and  bird's -nests  rifled,  his  beloved  Joss 
thrown  overboard,  and  his  queer  old  junk 
burnt  before  his  eyes.  Many  a  Dutch  and 
English  merchantman  sailed  from  Batavia  and 
Bombay  in  the  days  of  the  old  East  India 
Company  and  has  never  more  been  heard  of 


The  Kris 


until  some  mutilated  survivor  returned  with 
a  harrowing  tale  of  Malay  piracy  and  of  the 
lightning-like  work  of  the  dreaded  kris. 

I  do  not  know  whether  my  kris  has  ever 
taken  life  or  not.  Had  it  done  so,  I  do  not 
think  the  Sultan  would  have  given  it  to  me, 
for  a  kris  becomes  almost  priceless  after  its 
baptism  of  blood.  It  is  handed  down  from 
generation  to  generation,  and  its  sanguine 
history  becomes  a  part  of  the  education  of 
the  young.  Next  to  his  Koran  the  kris  is 
the  most  sacred  thing  the  Malay  possesses. 
He  regards  it  with  an  almost  superstitious 
reverence.  My  kris  is  dear  to  me,  not  from 
any  superstitious  reasons,  but  because  it  was 
given  me  by  his  Highness,  the  Sultan  of 
Johore,  the  only  independent  sovereign  on 
the  peninsula,  and  because  the  gold  of  its 
sheath  came  from  the  jungle-covered  slopes 
of  Mount  Ophir. 

The  maker  of  the  kris  is  a  person  of  im- 
portance among  the  Malays,  and  ofttimes  he 


78        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

is  made  by  his  grateful  Rajah  a  Dato,  or 
Lord,  for  his  skill.,  Like  the  blades  of  the 
sturdy  armorers  of  the  Crusades,  his  blades 
are  considered,  as  he  fashions  them  from  well- 
hammered  and  well-tempered  Celebes  iron, 
works  of  art  and  models  for  futurity.  He 
is  exceedingly  punctilious  in  regard  to  their 
shape,  size,  and  general  formation,  and  the 
process  of  giving  them  their  beautiful  water 
lines  is  quite  a  ceremony.  First  the  razor- 
like  edges  are  covered  with  a  thin  coating  of 
wax  to  protect  them  from  the  action  of  the 
acids ;  then  a  mixture  of  boiled  rice,  sulphur, 
and  salt  is  put  on  the  blade  and  left  for 
seven  days  until  a  film  of  rust  rises  to  the 
surface.  The  blade  is  then  immersed  in  the 
water  of  a  young  cocoanut  or  the  juice  of 
a  pineapple  and  left  seven  days  longer.  It 
is  next  brushed  with  the  juice  of  a  lemon 
until  all  the  rust  is  cleared  away,  and  then 
rubbed  with  arsenic  dissolved  in  lime-juice 
and  washed  with  cold  spring  water.  Finally 


THE    MAKING    OF    THE    KRIS 

"  He  fashions  it  from  well-hammered  and  well-tempered 
Celebes  iron  " 


The  Kris  79 


it  is  anointed  with  cocoanut  oil,  and  as  a 
concluding  test  of  its  fineness  and  temper, 
it  is  said  that  in  the  old  days  its  owner 
would  rush  out  into  the  kampong,  or  village, 
and  stab  the  first  person  he  met. 

The  sheath  of  the  kris  is  generally  made 
of  kamooning  wood,  but  often  of  ivory,  gold, 
or  silver.  The  handle,  while  more  frequently 
of  wood  or  buffalo  horn,  is  sometimes  of  gold 
studded  with  precious  stones  and  worth  more 
than  all  the  other  possessions  of  its  owner 
put  together. 

The  krisy  too,  has  its  etiquette.  It  is  al- 
ways worn  on  the  left  side  stuck  into  the 
folds  of  the  sarong,  or  skirt,  the  national 
dress  of  the  Malay.  During  an  interview  it 
is  considered  respectful  to  conceal  it;  and  its 
handle  is  turned  with  its  point  close  to  the 
body  of  the  wearer,  if  the  wearer  be  friendly. 
If,  however,  there  is  ill  blood  existing,  and  the 
wearer  is  angry,  the  kris  is  exposed,  and  the 
point  of  the  handle  turned  the  reverse  way. 


8o        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

The  kris  as  a  weapon  of  offence  and  de- 
fence is  now  almost  a  thing  of  the  past.  It 
is  rapidly  going  the  way  of  the  tomahawk 
and  the  boomerang  —  into  the  collector's 
cabinet.  There  is  a  law  in  Singapore  that 
forbids  its  being  worn,  and  outside  of  Johore 
and  the  native  states  it  is  seldom  seen.  It 
is  still  used  as  an  executioner's  knife  by  the 
protected  Sultan  of  Selangor,  its  keen  point 
being  driven  into  the  heart  of  the  victim ; 
but  in  a  few  years  that  practice,  too,  will  be 
abolished  by  the  humane  intervention  of  the 
English  government. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  record  of  the 
kris  is  not  as  bad  as  it  has  been  painted  by 
some,  and  that  at  times  in  its  bloody  career 
it  has  been  on  the  side  of  justice  and  right. 
The  part  it  took  in  the  piracy  that  once 
made  the  East  Indian  seas  so  famous  was 
not  always  done  for  the  sake  of  gain,  but 
often  for  revenge  and  for  independence. 


The  White   Rajah   of  Borneo 
^Founding  of  §>aratoab 


TN  the  East  Indian  seas,  by  Europeans 
-*•  and  natives  alike,  two  names  are  revered 
with  a  singleness  and  devotion  that  place 
them  side  by  side  with  the  national  heroes 
of  all  countries. 

The  men  that  bear  the  names  are  English- 
men, yet  the  countless  islands  of  the  vast 
Malayan  archipelago  are  populated  by  a  hun- 
dred European,  African,  and  Asiatic  races. 

Sir  Stamford  Raffles  founded  the  great  city 
of  Singapore,  and  Sir  James  Brooke,  the 
"White  Rajah,"  carved  out  of  a  tropical 
wilderness  just  across  the  equator,  in  Borneo, 
the  kingdom  of  Sarawak. 

There  is  no  one  man  in  all  history  with 
whom  you  may  compare  Rajah  Brooke.  His 

81 


82        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

career  was  the  score  of  a  hero  of  the  footlights 
or  of  the  dime  novel  rather  than  the  life  of 
an  actual  history-maker  in  this  prosaic  nine- 
teenth century.  What  is  true  of  him  is  also 
true  in  a  less  degree  of  his  famous  nephew  and 
successor,  Sir  Charles  Brooke,  G.  C.  M.  C., 
the  present  Rajah. 

One  morning  in  Singapore,  as  I  sipped 
my  tea  and  broke  open  one  cool,  delicious 
mangosteen  after  another,  I  was  reading  in 
the  daily  Straits  Times  an  account  of  the 
descent  of  a  band  of  head-hunting  Dyaks 
from  the  jungles  of  the  Rejang  River  in 
Borneo  on  an  isolated  fishing  kampong,  or 
village,  —  of  how  they  killed  men,  women, 
and  children,  and  carried  their  heads  back  to 
their  strongholds  in  triumph,  and  of  how, 
in  the  midst  of  their  feasting  and  ceremonies, 
Rajah  Brooke,  with  a  little  company  of 
fierce  native  soldiery,  had  surprised  and  ex- 
terminated them  to  the  last  man ;  and  just 
then  the  sound  of  heavy  cannonading  in 


The  White  Rajah  of  Borneo       83 

the  harbor  below  caused  me  to  drop  my 
paper. 

In  a  moment  the  great  guns  from  Fort 
Canning  answered.  I  counted  —  seventeen  — 
and  turned  inquiringly  to  the  naked  punkah- 
wallab,  who  stood  just  outside  in  the  shade 
of  the  wide  veranda,  listlessly  pulling  the 
rattan  rope  that  moved  the  stiff  fan  above 
me. 

His  brown,  open  palm  went  respectfully 
to  his  forehead. 

"  His  Highness,  the  Rajah  of  Sarawak/' 
he  answered  proudly  in  Malay.  "  He  come 
in  gunboat  Ranee  to  the  Gymkahna  races, 
—  bring  gold  cup  for  prizes  and  fast  runners. 
Come  every  year,  Tuan." 

I  had  forgotten  that  it  was  the  first  day  of 
the  long-looked-for  Gymkahna  races.  A  few 
hours  later  I  met  this  remarkable  man,  whose 
thrilling  exploits  had  commanded  my  earliest 
boyish  admiration. 

The  kindly  old  Sultan  of  Johore,  the   old 


84         Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

rebel  Sultan  of  Pahang,  the  Sultan  of  Lingae, 
in  all  the  finery  of  their  native  silks  and 
jewels,  the  nobles  of  their  courts,  and  a 
dozen  other  dignitaries,  were  on  the  grand- 
stand and  in  the  paddock  as  we  entered,  yet 
no  one  but  a  modest,  gray-haired  little  man 
by  the  side  of  the  English  governor  had 
any  place  in  my  thoughts.  We  knew  his 
history.  It  was  as  romantic  as  the  wild 
careers  of  Pizarro  and  Cortez ;  as  charming 
as  those  of  Robinson  Crusoe  and  the  dear 
old  Swiss  Family  Robinson ;  as  tragic  as 
Captain  Kidd's  or  Morgan's ;  and  withal, 
it  was  modelled  after  our  own  Washington. 
In  him  I  saw  the  full  realization  of  every 
boy's  wildest  dreams,  —  a  king  of  a  tropical 
island. 

The  bell  above  the  judges'  pavilion  sounded, 
and  a  little  whirlwind  of  running  griffins 
dashed  by  amid  the  yells  of  a  thousand  na- 
tives in  a  dozen  different  tongues.  The 
Rajah  leaned  out  over  the  gayly  decorated 


The  White  Rajah  of  Borneo       85 

railing  with  the  eagerness  of  a  boy,  as  he 
watched  his  own  colors  in  the  thick  of  the 
race. 

The  surging  mass  of  nakedness  below 
caught  sight  of  him,  and  another  yell  rent 
the  air,  quite  distinct  from  the  first,  for 
Malayan  and  Kling,  Tamil  and  Siamese, 
Dyak  and  Javanese,  Hindu,  Bugis,  Bur- 
mese, and  Lascar,  recognized  the  famous 
White  Rajah  of  Borneo,  the  man  who,  all 
unaided,  had  broken  the  power  of  the  sav- 
age head-hunting  Dyaks,  and  driven  from 
the  seas  the  fierce  Malayan  pirates.  The 
yell  was  not  a  cheer.  It  was  a  tribute  that 
a  tiger  might  make  to  his  tamer. 

The  Rajah  understood.  He  was  used  to 
such  sinister  outbursts  of  admiration,  for  he 
never  took  his  eyes-  from  the  course.  He 
was  secure  on  his  throne  now,  but  I  could 
not  but  wonder  if  that  yell,  which  sent  a 
strange  thrill  through  me,  did  not  bring  up 
recollections  of  one  of  the  hundred  sangui- 


86        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

nary  scenes  through  which  he  and  his  great 
uncle,  the  elder  Rajah  Brooke,  had  gone 
when  fighting  for  their  lives  and  kingdom. 

The  Sultan  of  Johore's  griffin  won,  and 
the  Rajah  stepped  back  to  congratulate  him. 
I,  too,  passed  over  to  where  he  stood,  and 
the  kindly  old  Sultan  took  me  by  the  hand. 

"  I  have  a  very  tender  spot  in  my  heart 
for  all  Americans/1  the  Rajah  replied  to  his 
Highnesses  introduction.  "  It  was  your  great 
republic  that  first  recognized  the  indepen- 
dence of  Sarawak." 

As  we  chatted  over  the  triumph  of  Glad- 
stone, the  silver  bill,  the  tariff,  and  a  dozen 
topics  of  the  day,  I  was  thinking  of  the 
head-hunters  of  whom  I  had  read  in  the 
morning  paper.  I  was  thinking,  too,  of  how 
this  man's  uncle  had,  years  before,  with  a 
boat's  crew  of  English  boys,  carved  out  of  an 
unknown  island  a  principality  larger  than  the 
state  of.  New  York,  reduced  its  savage  popu- 
lation to  orderly  tax-paying  citizens,  cleared 


The  White  Rajah  of  Borneo       87 

the  Borneo  and  Java  seas  of  their  thousands 
of  pirate  praus,  and  in  their  place  built  up  a 
merchant  fleet  and  a  commerce  of  nearly  five 
millions  of  dollars  a  year.  The  younger 
Rajah,  too,  had  done  his  share  in  the  making 
of  the  state.  In  his  light  tweed  suit  and  black 
English  derby,  he  did  not  look  the  strange, 
impossible  hero  of  romance  I  had  painted 
him ;  but  there  was  something  in  his  quiet, 
clear,  well-bred  English  accent,  and  the  strong, 
deep  lines  about  his  eyes  and  mouth,  that 
impressed  one  with  a  consciousness  of  tre- 
mendous reserve  force.  He  spoke  always 
slowly,  as  though  wearied  by  early  years  of 
fighting  and  exposure  in  the  searching  heat 
of  the  Bornean  sun. 

We  became  better  acquainted  later  at 
balls  and  dinners,  and  he  was  never  tired  of 
thanking  me  for  my  country's  kindness. 

In  1819,  when  the  English  took  Malacca 
and  the  Malay  peninsula  from  the  Dutch, 


88        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

they  agreed  to  surrender  all  claims  to  the 
islands  south  of  the  pirate-infested  Straits  of 
Malacca. 

The  Dutch,  contented  with  the  fabulously 
rich  island  of  Java  and  its  twenty-six  mill- 
ions of  mild-mannered  natives,  left  the  great 
islands  of  Sumatra,  Borneo,  and  Papua  to 
the  savage  rulers  and  savage  nations  that 
held  them. 

The  son  of  an  English  clergyman,  on  a 
little  schooner,  with  a  friend  or  two  and  a 
dozen  sailors,  sailed  into  these  little  known 
and  dangerous  waters  one  day  nineteen  years 
later.  His  mind  was  rilled  with  dreams  of 
an  East-Indian  empire ;  he  was  burning  to 
emulate  Cortez  and  Pizarro,  without  prac- 
tising their  abuses.  He  had  entered  the 
English  army  and  had  been  so  dangerously 
wounded  while  leading  a  charge  in  India 
after  his  superiors  had  fallen  that  he  had 
been  retired  on  a  pension  before  his  twenty- 
first  year.  While  regaining  his  health,  he 


The  White  Rajah  of  Borneo       89 

had  travelled  through  India,  Malaya,  and 
China,  and  had  written  a  journal  of  his  wan- 
derings. During  this  period  his  ambitions 
were  crowding  him  on  to  an  enterprise  that  was 
as  foolhardy  as  the  first  voyage  of  Columbus. 

He  had  spied  those  great  tropical  islands 
that  touched  the  equator,  and  he  coveted 
them. 

After  his  father's  death  he  invested  his 
little  fortune  in  a  schooner,  and  in  spite  of 
all  the  protests  and  prayers  of  his  family  and 
friends,  he  sailed  for  Singapore,  and  thence 
across  to  the  northwest  coast  of  Borneo, 
landing  at  Kuching,  on  the  Sarawak  River, 
in  1838. 

He  had  no  clearly  outlined  plan  of  opera- 
tions, —  he  was  simply  waiting  his  chance. 
The  province  of  Sarawak,  a  dependency  of 
the  Sultan  of  Borneo,  was  governed  by  an 
old  native  rajah,  whose  authority  was  men- 
aced by  the  fierce,  head-hunting  Dyaks  of 
the  interior.  Brooke's  chance  had  come. 


90        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

He  boldly  offered  to  put  down  the  rebellion 
if  the  Rajah  would  make  him  his  general  and 
second  to  the  throne.  The  Rajah  cunningly 
accepted  the  offer,  eager  to  let  the  hair- 
brained  young  infidel  annoy  his  foes,  but 
with  no  intention  of  keeping  his  promise. 

After  days  of  marching  with  his  little 
crew  and  a  small  army  of  natives,  through 
the  almost  impenetrable  rubber  jungles,  after 
a  dozen  hard-fought  battles  and  deeds  of 
personal  heroism,  any  one  of  which  would 
make  a  story,  the  head-hunters  were  crushed 
and  some  kind  of  order  restored.  He  re- 
fused to  allow  the  Rajah  to  torture  the  pris- 
oners,—  thereby  winning  their  gratitude, — 
and  he  refused  to  be  dismissed  from  his 
office.  He  had  won  his  rank,  and  he  ap- 
pealed to  the  Sultan.  The  wily  Sultan  rec- 
ognized that  in  this  stranger  he  had  found 
a  man  who  would  be  able  to  collect  his 
revenue,  and  much  to  Brooke's  surprise,  a 
courier  entered  Kuching,  the  capital,  one  day 


The  White  Rajah  of  Borneo       91 

and  summarily  dismissed  the  native  Rajah 
and  proclaimed  the  young  Englishman  Rajah 
of  Sarawak. 

Brooke  was  a  king  at  last.  His  empire 
was  before  him,  but  he  was  only  king  be- 
cause the  reigning  Sultan  relinquished  a  part 
of  his  dominions  that  he  was  unable  to  con- 
trol. The  tasks  to  be  accomplished  before  he 
could  make  his  word  law  were  ones  that  Eng- 
land, Holland,  and  the  navies  of  Europe  had 
shirked.  His  so-called  subjects  were  the  most 
notorious  and  daring  pirates  in  the  history  of 
the  world ;  they  were  head-hunters,  they  prac- 
tised slavery,  and  they  were  cruel  and  blood- 
thirsty on  land  and  sea.  Out  of  such  elements 
this  boy  king  built  his  kingdom.  How  he 
did  it  would  furnish  tales  that  would  outdo 
Verne,  Kingston,  and  Stevenson. 

He  abolished  military  marauding  and  every 
form  of  slavery,  established  courts,  missions, 
and  schoolhouses,  and  waged  war,  single- 
handed,  against  head-hunting  and  piracy. 


92         Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

Head-hunting  is  to  the  Dyaks  what  amok 
is  to  the  Malays  or  scalping  to  the  American 
Indians.  It  is  even  more.  No  Dyak  woman 
would  marry  a  man  who  could  not  decorate 
their  home  with  at  least  one  human  head. 
Often  bands  of  Dyaks,  numbering  from  five  to 
seven  thousand,  would  sally  forth  from  their 
fortifications  and  cruise  along  the  coast  four 
or  five  hundred  miles,  to  surprise  a  village  and 
carry  the  inhabitants'  heads  back  in  triumph. 

To-day  head-hunting  is  practically  stamped 
out,  as  is  running  amok  among  the  Malays, 
although  cases  of  each  occur  from  time  to 
time. 

As  his  subjects  in  the  jungles  were  head- 
hunters,  so  those  of  the  coast  were  pirates. 
Every  harbor  was  a  pirate  haven.  They 
lived  in  big  towns,  possessed  forts  and  can- 
non, and  acknowledged  neither  the  suze- 
rainty of  the  Sultan  or  the  domination  of  the 
Dutch.  They  were  stronger  than  the  native 
rulers,  and  no  European  nation  would  go 


The  White  Rajah  of  Borneo       93 

to  the  great  expense  of  life  and  treasure 
needed  to  break  their  power.  Brooke  knew 
that  his  title  would  be  but  a  mockery  as 
long  as  the  pirates  commanded  the  mouths 
of  all  his  rivers. 

With  his  little  schooner,  armed  with  three 
small  guns  and  manned  by  a  crew  of  white 
companions  and  Dyak  sailors,  he  gave  battle 
first  to  the  weaker  strongholds,  gradually 
attaching  the  defeated  to  his  standard.  He 
found  himself  at  the  end  of  nine  years  their 
master  and  a  king  in  something  more  than 
name.  Combined  with  the  qualities  of  a 
fearless  fighter,  he  had  the  faculty  of  win- 
ning the  good  will  and  admiration  of  his  foes. 

The  fierce  Suloos  and  Illanums  became 
his  fast  friends.  He  left  their  chiefs  in 
power,  but  punished  every  outbreak  with  a 
merciless  hand. 

One  of  the  many  incidents  of  his  checkered 
career  shows  that  his  spirit  was  all-powerful 
among  them.  He  had  invited  the  Chinese 


94         Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

from  Amoy  to  take  up  their  residence  at  his 
capital,  Kuching.  They  were  traders  and 
merchants,  and  soon  built  up  a  commerce. 
They  became  so  numerous  in  time  that  they 
believed  they  could  seize  the  government. 
The  plot  was  successful,  and  during  a  night 
attack  they  overcame  the  Rajah's  small  guard, 
and  he  escaped  to  the  river  in  his  pajamas 
without  a  single  follower. 

Sir  Charles  told  me  one  day,  as  we  con- 
versed on  the  broad  veranda  of  the  consulate, 
that  that  night  was  the  darkest  in  all  his 
great  uncle's  stormy  life.  The  hopes  and 
work  of  years  were  shattered  at  a  single  blow, 
and  he  was  an  outcast  with  a  price  on  his 
head. 

The  homeless  king  knelt  in  the  bottom  of 
the  prau  and  prayed  for  strength,  and  then 
took  up  the  oars  and  pulled  silently  toward 
the  ocean.  Near  morning  he  was  abreast  of 
one  of  the  largest  Suloo  forts  —  the  home 
of  his  bitterest  and  bravest  foes. 


The  White  Rajah  of  Borneo       95 

He  turned  the  head  of  his  boat  to  the 
shore  and  landed  unarmed  and  undressed 
among  the  pirates.  He  surrendered  his  life, 
his  throne,  and  his  honor,  into  their  keeping. 

They  listened  silently,  and  then  their 
scarred  old  chief  stepped  forward  and  placed 
a  naked  kris  in  the  white  man's  hand  and 
kissed  his  feet. 

Before  the  sun  went  down  that  day  the 
White  Rajah  was  on  his  throne  again,  and 
ten  thousand  grim,  fierce  Suloos  were  hunt- 
ing the  Chinese  like  a  pack  of  bloodhounds. 

In  1848  Rajah  Brooke  decided  to  visit  his 
old  home  in  England,  and  ask  his  country- 
men for  teachers  and  missions.  His  fame 
had  preceded  him.  All  England  was  alive 
to  his  great  deeds.  There  were  greetings  by 
enthusiastic  crowds  wherever  he  appeared, 
banquets  by  boards  of  trade,  and  gifts  of 
freedom  of  cities.  He  was  lodged  in  Bal- 
moral Castle,  knighted  by  the  Queen,  made 
Consul-General  of  Borneo,  Governor  of  La- 


96         Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

buan,  Doctor  of  Laws  by  Oxford,  and  was 
the  lion  of  the  hour. 

He  returned  to  Sarawak,  accompanied  by 
European  officers  and  friends,  to  carry  on 
his  great  work  of  civilization,  and  to  make 
of  his  little  tropical  kingdom  a  recognized 
power. 

He  died  in  1868,  and  was  carried  back  to 
England  for  burial,  and  I  predict  that  at  no 
distant  day  a  grateful  people  will  rise  up  and 
ask  of  England  his  body,  that  it  may  be  laid 
to  rest  in  the  yellow  sands  under  the  grace- 
ful palms  of  the  unknown  nation  of  which 
he  was  the  Washington. 

His  nephew,  Sir  Charles  Brooke,  who  had 
also  been  his  faithful  companion  for  many 
years,  succeeded  him. 

Sarawak  has  to-day  a  coast-line  of  over 
four  hundred  miles,  with  an  area  of  fifty 
thousand  square  miles,  and  a  population  of 
three  hundred  thousand  souls.  The  country 
produces  gold,  silver,  diamonds,  antimony, 


The  White  Rajah  of  Borneo       97 

quicksilver,  coal,  gutta-percha,  rubber,  canes, 
rattan,  camphor,  beeswax,  edible  bird's-nests, 
sago,  tapioca,  pepper,  and  tobacco,  all  of 
which  find  their  way  to  Singapore,  and  thence 
to  Europe  and  America. 

The  Rajah  is  absolute  head  of  the  state ; 
but  he  is  advised  by  a  legislative  council 
composed  of  two  Europeans  and  five  native 
chiefs.  He  has  a  navy  of  a  number  of  small 
but  effective  gunboats,  and  a  well-trained  and 
officered  army  of  several  hundred  men,  who 
look  after  the  wild  tribes  of  the  interior  of 
Borneo  and  guard  the  great  coast-line  from 
piratical  excursions ;  otherwise  they  would  be 
useless,  as  his  rule  is  almost  fatherly,  and  he 
is  dearly  beloved  by  his  people. 

It  is  impossible  in  one  short  sketch  to 
relate  a  tenth  of  the  daring  deeds  and  start- 
ling adventures  of  these  two  white  rajahs. 
Their  lives  have  been  written  in  two  bulky 
volumes,  and  the  American  boy  who  loves 
stories  that  rival  his  favorite  authors  of  ad- 


98        Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

venture  will  find  them  by  going  to  the 
library  and  asking  for  the  "  Life  of  the  Rajah 
of  Sarawak." 

There  is  much  in  this  "  Life "  that  might 
be  read  by  our  statesmen  and  philanthropists 
with  profit ;  for  the  building  of  a  kingdom 
in  a  jungle  of  savage  men  and  savage  beasts 
places  the  name  of  Brooke  of  Borneo  among 
those  of  the  world's  great  men,  as  it  does 
among  those  of  the  heroes  of  adventure. 

One  evening  we  were  pacing  back  and 
forth  on  the  deck  of  the  Rajah's  magnificent 
gunboat,  the  Ranee.  A  soft  tropical  breeze 
was  blowing  off  shore.  Thousands  of  lights 
from  running  rickshas  and  bullock  carts  were 
dancing  along  the  wide  esplanade  that  sepa- 
rates the  city  of  Singapore  from  the  sea. 
The  strange  old-world  cries  from  the  natives 
came  out  to  us  in  a  babel  of  sound. 

Chinese  in  sampans  and  Malays  in  praus 
were  gliding  about  our  bows  and  back  and 
forth  between  the  great  foreign  men-of-war 


The  White  Rajah  of  Borneo        99 

that  overshadowed  us.  The  Orient  was  on 
every  hand,  and  I  looked  wonderingly  at  the 
slightly  built,  gray-haired  man  at  my  side, 
with  a  feeling  that  he  had  stepped  from  out 
some  wild  South  Sea  tale. 

"Your  Highness,"  I  said,  as  we  chatted, 
"tell  me  how  you  made  subjects  out  of 
pirates  and  head-hunters,  when  our  great 
nation,  with  all  its  power  and  gold,  has  only 
been  able  after  one  hundred  years  to  make 
paupers  out  of  our  Indians." 

"  Do  you  see  that  man  ? "  he  replied, 
pointing  to  a  stalwart,  brown-faced  Dyak, 
who  in  the  blue  and  gold  uniform  of  Sara- 
wak was  leaning  idly  against  the  bulwarks. 
"  That  is  the  Dato  (Lord)  Imaum,  Judge  of 
the  Supreme  Court  of  Sarawak.  He  was 
one  of  the  most  redoubtable  of  the  Suloo 
pirates.  My  uncle  fought  him  for  eight 
years.  In  all  that  time  he  never  broke  his 
word  in  battle  or  in  truce.  When  Sir  James 
was  driven  from  his  throne  by  the  Chinese, 


ioo       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

the  Dato  Imaum  fought  to  reinstate  him  as 
his  master. 

"  Civilization  is  only  skin  deep,  and  so  is 
barbarism.  Had  your  country  never  broken 
its  word  and  been  as  just  as  it  is  powerful, 
your  red  men  would  have  been  to-day  where 
our  brown  men  are  —  our  equals." 

An  hour  later  I  stepped  into  my  launch, 
which  was  lying  alongside.  The  American 
flag  at  the  peak  came  down,  and  the  guns 
of  the  Ranee  belched  forth  the  consular 
salute. 

I  instinctively  raised  my  hat  as  we  glided 
over  the  phosphorescent  waters  of  the  harbor, 
for  in  my  thoughts  I  was  still  in  the  pres- 
ence of  one  of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth. 


Amok  ! 


TF  you  run  amok  in  Malaya,  you  may  per- 
-••  haps  kill  your  enemy  or  wound  your 
dearest  friend,  but  you  may  be  certain  that 
in  the  end  you  will  be  krissed  like  a  pariah 
dog.  Every  man,  woman,  and  child  will  turn 
his  or  her  hand  against  you,  from  the  mother 
who  bore  you  to  the  outcast  you  have  be- 
friended. The  laws  are  as  immutable  as  fate. 

Just  where  the  great  river  Maur  empties 
its  vast  volume  of  red  water  across  a  shift- 
ing bar  into  the  Straits  of  Malacca,  stands 
the  kampong  of  Bander  Maharani. 

The  Sultan  Abubaker  named  the  village 
in  honor  of  his  dead  Sultana,  and  here,  close 
down  to  the  bank,  was  the  palace  of  his 
nephew  —  the  Governor,  Prince  Sulliman. 


101 


102       Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

A  wide,  red,  well-paved  road  separated  the 
village  of  thatch  and  grass  from  the  palace 
grounds,  and  ended  at  a  wharf,  up  to  which 
a  steam-launch  would  dash  from  time  to 
time,  startling  the  half-grown  crocodiles  that 
slept  beneath  the  rickety  timbers. 

Sometimes  the  little  Prince  Mat,  the  son 
of  the  Governor,  came  down  to  the  wharf 
and  played  with  the  children  of  the  captain 
of  the  launch,  while  his  Tuan  Penager^  or 
Teacher,  dozed  beneath  his  yellow  umbrella ; 
and  often,  at  their  play,  his  Excellency  would 
pause  and  watch  them,  smiling  kindly. 

At  such  times,  the  captain  of  the  launch 
would  fall  upon  his  face,  and  thank  the 
Prophet  that  he  had  lived  to  see  that  day. 
"  For,"  he  would  say,  "  some  day  he  may 
speak  to  me,  and  ask  me  for  the  wish  I 
treasure." 

Then  he  would  go  back  to  his  work, 
polishing  the  brass  on  the  railings  of  his 
boat,  regardless  of  the  watchful  eyes  that 


Amok !  103 


blinked  at  him  from  the  mud  beneath  the 
wharf. 

He  smiled  contentedly,  for  his  mind  was 
made  up.  He  would  not  ask  to  be  made 
master  of  the  Sultan's  marvellous  yacht,  that 
was  sent  out  from  Liverpool,  —  although  the 
possibility  made  him  catch  his  breath :  he 
would  ask  nothing  for  himself,  —  he  would 
ask  that  his  Excellency  let  his  son  Noa  go 
to  Mecca,  that  he  might  become  a  badji  and 
then  some  day  —  who  knows  —  Noa  might 
become  a  kateeb  in  the  ^//^-thatched  mosque 
back  of  the  palace. 

And  Noa,  unmindful  of  his  father's  dream- 
ing, played  with  the  little  Prince,  kicking 
the  ragga  ball,  or  sailing  miniature  praus  out 
into  the  river,  and  off  toward  the  shimmer- 
ing straits.  But  often  they  sat  cross-legged 
and  dropped  bits  of  chicken  and  fruit  be- 
tween the  palm  sleepers  of  the  wharf  to  the 
birch-colored  crocodiles  below,  who  snapped 
them  up,  one  after  another,  never  taking 


iO4      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

their  small,  cruel  eyes  off  the  brown  faces 
that  peered  down  at  them. 

Child-life  is  measured  by  a  few  short  years 
in  Malaya.  The  hot,  moist  air  and  the 
fierce  rays  of  the  equatorial  sun  fall  upon 
child  and  plant  alike,  and  they  grow  so  fast 
that  you  can  almost  hear  them  ! 

The  little  Prince  soon  forgot  his  child- 
hood companions  in  the  gorgeous  court  of 
his  Highness,  the  Sultan  of  Johore,  and  Noa 
took  the  place  of  his  father  on  the  launch, 
while  the  old  man  silently  mourned  as  he 
leaned  back  in  its  stern,  and  alternately 
watched  the  sunlight  that  played  along  the 
carefully  polished  rails,  and  the  deepening 
shadows  that  bound  the  black  labyrinth  of 
mangrove  roots  on  the  opposite  shore.  The 
Governor  had  never  noted  his  repeated  pro- 
testations and  deep-drawn  sighs. 

"  But  who  cares,"  he  thought.  "  It  is  the 
will  of  Allah !  The  Prince  will  surely  re- 
member us  when  he  returns." 


Amok !  105 


On  the  very  edge  of  Bander  Maharani,  just 
where  the  almost  endless  miles  of  betel-nut 
palms  shut  from  view  the  yellow  turrets  of 
the  palace,  stood  the  palm-thatched  bunga- 
low in  which  Anak  grew,  in  a  few  short 
years,  from  childhood  to  womanhood.  The 
hot,  sandy  soil  all  about  was  covered  with 
the  flaxen  burs  of  the  betel,  and  the  little 
sunlight  that  found  its  way  down  through 
the  green  and  yellow  fronds  drew  rambling 
checks  on  the  steaming  earth,  that  reminded 
Anak  of  the  plaid  on  the  silken  sarong  that 
Noa's  father  had  given  her  the  day  she  was 
betrothed  to  his  son. 

Up  the  bamboo  ladder  and  into  the  little 
door,  —  so  low  that  even  Anak,  with  her 
scant  twelve  years,  was  forced  to  stoop,  — 
she  would  dart  when  she  espied  Noa  coming 
sedately  down  the  long  aisle  of  palms  that 
led  away  to  the  fungus-covered  canal  that 
separated  her  little  world  from  the  life  of 
the  capital  city. 


io6      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

There  was  coquetry  in  every  glance,  as 
she  watched  him,  from  behind  the  carved 
bars  of  her  low  window,  drop  contentedly 
down  on  the  bench  beneath  a  scarred  old 
cocoanut  that  stood  directly  before  the  door. 
She  thought  almost  angrily  that  he  ought  to 
have  searched  a  little  for  her :  she  would 
have  repaid  him  with  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

From  the  cool  darkness  of  the  bungalow 
came  the  regular  click  of  her  mother's  loom. 
She  could  see  the  worker's  head  surrounded 
by  a  faint  halo  of  broken  twilight.  Her 
mind  filled  in  the  details  that  were  hidden 
by  the  green  shadows  —  the  drawn,  stooping 
figure,  the  scant  black  hair,  the  swollen 
gums,  the  jryr^-stained  teeth,  and  sunken 
neck.  She  impulsively  ran  her  soft  brown 
fingers  over  her  own  warm,  plump  face, 
through  the  luxuriant  tresses  of  her  heavy 
hair,  and  then  gazed  out  at  the  recumbent 
figure  on  the  bench,  waiting  patiently  for 
her  coming. 


Amok !  107 


"  Soon  my  teeth,  which  the  American  lady 
that  was  visiting  his  Excellency  said  were  so 
strong  and  beautiful,  will  be  filed  and  black- 
ened, and  I  will  be  weaving  sarongs  for 
Noa." 

She  shuddered,  she  knew  not  why,  and 
went  slowly  across  the  elastic  bamboo  strips 
o/  the  floor  and  down  the  ladder. 

Noa  watched  the  trim  little  figure  with 
its  single  covering  of  cotton,  the  straight, 
graceful  body,  and  perfectly  poised  head 
and  delicate  neck,  the  bare  feet  and  ankles, 
the  sweet,  comely  face  with  its  fresh  young 
lips,  free  from  the  red  stains  of  the  syrab 
leaf,  and  its  big  brown  eyes  that  looked 
from  beneath  heavy  silken  lashes.  He 
smiled,  but  did  not  stir  as  she  came  to 
him.  He  was  proud  of  her  after  the  man- 
ner of  his  kind.  Her  beauty  appealed  to 
him  unconsciously,  although  he  had  never 
been  taught  to  consider  beauty,  or  even  seek 
it.  He  would  have  married  her  without  a 


io8      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

question,  if  she  had  been  as  hideous  as  his 
sister,  who  was  scarred  with  the  small-pox. 
He  would  never  have  complained  if,  accord- 
ing to  Malayan  custom,  he  had  not  been  per- 
mitted to  have  seen  her  until  the  marriage 
day.  He  must  marry  some  one,  now  that 
the  Prince  had  gone  to  Johore,  and  his 
father  had  given  up  all  hope  of  seeing  him 
a  badji ;  and  besides,  the  captain  of  the 
launch  and  the  old  punghulo,  or  chief,  Anak's 
father,  were  fast  friends.  The  marriage  meant 
little  more  to  the  man. 

But  to  Anak,  —  once  the  Prince  Mat  had 
told  her  she  was  pretty,  when  she  had  come 
down  to  the  wharf  to  beg  a  small  crocodile 
to  bury  underneath  her  grandmother's  bunga- 
low to  keep  off  white  ants,  and  her  cheeks 
glowed  yet  under  her  brown  skin  at  the  re- 
membrance. Noa  had  never  told  her  she 
was  beautiful ! 

A  featherless  hen  was  scratching  in  the 
yellow  sand  at  her  feet,  and  a  brood  of 


Amok !  109 


featherless  chicks  were  following  each  cluck 
with  an  intensity  of  interest  that  left  them 
no  time  to  watch  the  actions  of  the  lovers. 

"  Why  did  you  come  ? "  she  asked  in  the 
soft  liquid  accents  of  her  people. 

There  was  an  eagerness  in  the  question 
that  suggested  its  own  answer. 

"To  bring  a  message  to  the  pungbulo"  he 
replied,  not  noticing  the  coquetry  of  the 
look. 

"  Oh !  then  you  are  in  haste.  Why  do 
you  wait  ?  My  father  is  at  the  canal." 

"  It  is  about  you/'  he  went  on,  his  face 
glowing.  "  The  Prince  is  coming  back,  and 
we  are  to  be  married.  My  father,  the  cap- 
tain, made  bold  to  ask  his  Excellency  to  let 
the  Prince  be  present,  and  he  granted  our 
prayer." 

She  turned  away  to  hide  her  disappoint- 
ment. It  was  the  thought  of  the  honor  that 
was  his  in  the  eyes  of  the  province,  and  not 
that  he  was  to  marry  her,  that  set  the  lights 


no      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

dancing  in  his  eyes  !  She  hated  him  then 
for  his  very  love ;  it  was  so  sure  and  confi- 
dent in  its  right  to  overlook  hers  in  this 
petty  attention  from  a  mere  boy,  who  had  once 
condescended  to  praise  her  girlish  beauty. 

"  When  is  the  Prince  coming  ? "  she  ques- 
tioned, ignoring  his  clumsy  attempt  to  take 
her  hand. 

"During  the  feast  of  Hari  Raya  Hadji," 
he  replied,  smiling. 

She  kicked  some  sand  with  her  bare  toes, 
amongst  the  garrulous  chickens. 

"Tell  me  about  the  Prince." 

Her  mood  had  changed.  Her  eyes  were 
wide  open,  and  her  face  all  aglow.  She  was 
wondering  if  he  would  notice  her  above  the 
bridesmaids,  —  if  it  was  not  for  her  sake  he 
was  coming  ? 

And  then  her  lover  told  her  of  the  gossip 
of  the  palace,  —  of  the  Prince's  life  in  the 
Sultan's  court,  —  of  his  wit  and  grace,  —  of 
how  he  had  learned  English,  and  was  soon 


Amok !  in 


to  go  to  London,  where  he  would  be  enter- 
tained by  the  Queen. 

Above  their  heads  the  wind  played  with 
the  tattered  flags  of  the  palms,  leaving  open- 
ings here  and  there  that  exposed  the  steely- 
white  glare  of  the  sky,  and  showed,  far  away 
to  the  northward,  the  denuded  red  dome  of 
Mount  Ophir. 

The  girl  noted  the  clusters  of  berries 
showing  redly  against  the  dark  green  of 
some  .  pepper-vines  that  clambered  up  the 
black  nebong  posts  of  her  home ;  she  won- 
dered vaguely  as  he  talked  if  she  were  to  go 
on  through  life  seeing  pepper-vines  and 
betel-nut  trees,  and  hot  sand  and  featherless 
hens,  and  never  get  beyond  the  shadow  of 
the  mysterious  mountains. 

Possibly  it  was  the  sight  of  the  white 
ladies  from  Singapore,  possibly  it  was  the 
few  light  words  dropped  by  the  half-grown 
Prince,  possibly  it  was  something  within  her- 
self, —  something  inherited  from  ancestors 


H2       Tales  of  the    Malayan   Coast 

who  had  lived  when  the  fleets  of  Solomon 
and  Hiram  sought  for  gold  and  ivory  at  the 
base  of  the  distant  mountains,  —  that  drove 
her  to  revolt,  and  led  her  to  question  the 
right  of  this  marriage  that  was  to  seal  her 
forever  to  the,  attap  bungalow,  and  the  nar- 
row, colorless  life  that  awaited  her  on  the 
banks  of  the  Maur.  She  turned  fiercely  on 
her  wooer,  and  her  brown  eyes  flashed. 

"You  have  never  asked  me  whether  I 
love ! " 

The  Malay  half  rose  from  his  seat.  The 
look  of  surprise  and  perplexity  that  had 
filled  his  face  gave  place  to  one  of  almost 
childish  wonder. 

"  Of  course  you  love  me.  Is  it  not  so 
written  in  the  Koran,  —  a  wife  shall  rever- 
ence her  husband  ? " 

"  Why  ?  "  she  questioned  angrily. 

He  paused  a  moment,  trying  dimly  to 
comprehend  the  question,  and  then  an- 
swered slowly, — 


Amok ! 


"Because  it  is  written." 

She  did  not  draw  away  when  he  took  her 
hand ;  he  had  chosen  his  answer  better  than 
he  knew. 

"  Because  it  is  written/'  that  was  all. 
Her  own  feeble  revolt  was  but  as  a  breath  of 
air  among  the  yellow  fronds  above  their  heads. 

When  Noa  had  gone,  the  girl  drew  her- 
self wearily  up  the  ladder,  and  dropped  on 
a  cool  palm  mat  near  the  never  ceasing 
loom.  For  almost  the  first  time  in  her 
short,  uneventful  life  she  fell  to  thinking  of 
herself.  She  wondered  if  the  white  ladies 
in  Singapore  married  because  all  had  been 
arranged  by  a  father  who  forgot  you  the 
moment  you  disappeared  within  the  door  of 
your  own  house,  —  if  they  loved  one  man 
better  than  another,  —  if  they  could  always 
marry  the  one  they  liked  best.  She  won- 
dered why  every  one  must  be  married, — why 
could  she  not  go  on  and  live  just  as  she 
had,  —  she  could  weave  and  sew? 


H4      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

A  gray  lizard  darted  from  out  its  hiding- 
place  in  the  attap  at  a  great  atlas  moth 
which  worked  its  brilliant  wings ;  clumsily 
it  tore  their  delicate  network  until  the  air 
was  full  of  a  golden  dust. 

"  I  am  the  moth,"  she  said  softly,  and 
raised  her  hand  too  late  to  save  it  from  its 
enemy. 

The  Sultan's  own  yacht,  the  Pante,  brought 
the  Prince  back  to  Maur,  and  as  it  was  low 
tide,  the  Governor's  launch  went  out  beyond 
the  bar  and  met  him. 

The  band  played  the  national  anthem 
when  he  landed  on  the  pier,  and  Inchi 
Mohammed,  the  Tuan  Hakim,  or  Chief 
Justice,  made  a  speech. 

The  red  gravel  walk  from  the  landing  to 
the  palace  gate  was  strewn  with  hibiscus  and 
alamander  and  yellow  convolvulus  flowers, 
and  bordered  with  the  delicate  maidenhair 
fern. 

Johore    and     British    flags     hung    in    great 


Amok! 


festoons  from  the  deep  verandas  of  the  pal- 
ace, and  the  brass  guns  from  the  fort  gave 
forth  the  royal  salute. 

Anak  was  in  the  crowd  with  her  father, 
the  old  chief,  and  her  affianced,  Noa.  She 
had  put  on  her  silk  sarong  and  kabaya,  and 
some  curious  gold  brooches  that  were  her 
mother's.  In  her  coal-black  hair  she  had 
stuck  some  sprays  of  the  sweet-smelling 
chumpaka  flower.  On  her  slender  bare  feet 
were  sandals  cunningly  wrought  in  colored 
beads.  Her  soft  brown  eyes  glowed  with 
excitement,  and  she  edged  away  from  the 
punghulo's  side  until  she  stood  close  up  in 
front,  so  near  that  she  could  almost  touch 
the  sarong  of  the  Tuan  Hakim  as  he  read. 

The  Prince  had  grown  so  since  he  left 
that  she  scarcely  knew  him,  and  save  for  the 
narrow  silk  sarong  about  his  waist,  he  was 
dressed  in  the  English  clothes  of  a  Lieu- 
tenant of  his  Highness's  artillery.  In  the 
front  of  his  rimless  cap  shone  the  arms  of 


n6      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

Johore  set  in  diamonds,  exactly  as  his  father, 
the  Governor,  wore  them.  He  paused  and 
smiled  as  he  thanked  the  cringing  Tuan 
Hakim. 

The  blood  rushed  to  the  girl's  cheeks, 
and  she  nearly  fell  down  at  his  feet.  She 
realized  but  dimly  that  Noa  was  plucking 
at  her  kabaya,  wishing  her  to  go  with  him  to 
see  the  bungalow  that  his  father  was  build- 
ing for  them. 

"  The  posts  are  to  be  of  polished  nebong" 
he  was  saying,  "  the  wood-work  of  maranti 
wood  from  Pahang;  and  there  is  to  be  a 
cote,  ever  so  cunningly  woven  of  green  and 
yellow  bamboo,  for  your  ring-doves,  under 
the  attap  of  the  great  eaves  above  the  door." 

She  turned  wearily  toward  her  lover,  and 
the  bright  look  faded  from  her  comely  face. 
With  a  half-uttered  sigh  she  drew  off  her 
sandals  and  tucked  them  carefully  beneath 
the  silver  zone  that  held  her  sarong  in  place. 

"Anak,"    he    said    softly,  as    they  left   the 


Amok  ! 


117 


hot,  red  streets,  filled  with  lumbering  bul- 
lock-carts and  omnipresent  rickshas,  "why  do 
you  look  away  when  I  talk  of  our  marriage  ? 
Is  it  because  the  Koran  teaches  modesty  in 
woman,  or  is  it  because  you  are  over-proud 
of  your  husband  when  you  see  him  among 
other  men  ? " 

But  the  girl  was  not  listening. 

He  looked  at  her  keenly,  and  as  he  saw 
the  red  blood  mantle  her  cheek,  he  smiled 
and  went  on  :  — 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  wear  the  sarong  I 
gave  you,  and  your  best  kabayay  and  the 
flowers  I  like  in  your  hair.  I  heard  more 
than  one  say  that  it  showed  you  would 
make  a  good  wife  in  spite  of  our  knowing 
one  another  before  marriage." 

"You  think  that  it  was  for  you  that  I 
put  on  all  this  bravery  ? "  she  asked,  looking 
him  straight  in  the  face.  "Am  I  not  to  be 
your  wife?  Can  I  not  dress  in  honor  of 
the  young  Prince  and  —  Allah  ?  " 


n8      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

He  turned  to  stammer  a  reply.  The 
hot  blood  mounted  to  his  temples,  and  he 
grasped  the  girl's  arm  so  that  she  cried  out 
with  pain. 

"You  are  to  be  my  wife,  and  I  your 
master.  It  is  my  wish  that  you  should 
ever  dress  in  honor  of  our  rulers  and  our 
Allah,  for  in  showing  honor  to  those  above 
you,  you  honor  your  husband.  I  do  not 
understand  you  at  all  times,  but  I  intend 
that  you  shall  understand  me.  Sudab !  " 

"Tuan  Allah  Suka !  "  (The  Lord  Allah 
has  willed  it),  she  murmured,  and  they 
plodded  on  through  the  hot  sand  in  silence. 

After  his  return  they  saw  the  Prince  often, 
and  once  when  Anak  came  down  to  the 
wharf  to  bring  a  durian  to  the  captain  of 
the  launch  from  her  father,  the  old  pung- 
hulo,  she  met  him  face  to  face,  and  he 
touched  her  cheek  with  his  jewelled  fingers, 
and  said  she  had  grown  much  prettier  since 
he  left. 


Amok! 


Noa  was  not  angry  at  the  Prince, 
rather  he  was  proud  of  his  notice,  but  a 
sinister  light  burned  in  his  eyes  as  he  saw 
the  flushed  face  and  drooping  head  of  the 
girl. 

And  once  the  Prince  passed  by  the  pung- 
hulo  s  home  on  his  way  into  the  jungle  in 
search  of  a  tiger,  and  inquired  for  his  daugh- 
ter. Anak  treasured  the  remembrance  of 
these  little  attentions,  and  pondered  over 
them  day  after  day,  as  she  worked  by  her 
mother's  side  at  the  loom,  or  sat  outside  in 
the  sand,  picking  the  flossy  burs  from  the 
betel-nuts,  watching  the  flickering  shadows 
that  every  breeze  in  the  leaves  above 
scattered  in  prodigal  wastefulness  about  and 
over  her. 

She  told  herself  over  and  over,  as  she 
followed  with  dreamy  eyes  the  vain  endeav- 
ors of  a  chameleon  to  change  his  color,  as 
the  shadows  painted  the  sand  beneath  him 
first  green  and  then  white,  that  her  own 


120      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

hopes  and  strivings  were  just  as  futile ;  and 
yet  when  Noa  would  sit  beside  her  and  try 
to  take  her  hand,  she  would  fly  into  a  pas- 
sion, and  run  sobbing  up  the  ladder  of  her 
home.  Noa  became  moody  in  turn.  His 
father  saw  it  and  his  mates  chaffed  him,  but 
no  one  guessed  the  cause.  That  it  should 
be  for  the  sake  of  a  woman  would  have  been 
beyond  belief;  for  did  not  the  Koran  say, 
"  If  thy  wife  displease  thee,  beat  her  until 
she  see  the  sin  of  her  ways  "  ?  One  day,  as 
he  thought,  it  occurred  to  him,  "  She  does 
not  want  to  marry  me  ! "  and  he  asked  her, 
as  though  it  made  any  difference.  There 
were  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  she  only  threw 
back  her  head  and  laughed,  and  replied  as 
she  should:  — 

"  That  is  no  concern  of  ours.  Is  your 
father,  the  captain,  displeased  with  my 
father's,  the  pungbuto's,  dowry  ?  " 

And  yet  Noa  felt  that  Anak  knew  what 
he  would  have  said. 


Amok!  121 


He  went  away  angry,  but  with  a  gnawing 
at  his  heart  that  frightened  him,  —  a  strange, 
new  sickness,  that  seemed  to  drive  him  from 
despair  to  a  longing  for  revenge,  with  the 
coming  and  going  of  each  quick  breath. 
He  had  been  trying  to  make  love  in  a  blind, 
stumbling  way;  he  did  not  know  it,  —  why 
should  he  ?  Marriage  was  but  a  bargain  in 
Malaya.  But  Anak  with  her  finer  instincts 
felt  it,  and  instead  of  fanning  this  tiny,  un- 
known spark,  she  was  driving  it  into  other 
and  baser  channels. 

In  spite  of  her  better  nature  she  was 
slowly  making  a  demon  out  of  a  lover, 
—  a  lover  to  whom  but  a  few  months 
before  she  would  have  given  freely  all 
her  love  for  a  smile  or  the  lightest  of 
compliments. 

From  that  day  until  the  day  of  the 
marriage  she  never  spoke  to  her  lover 
save  in  the  presence  of  her  elders,  —  for 
such  was  the  law  of  her  race. 


122       Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

She  submitted  to  the  tire-women  who 
were  to  prepare  her  for  the  ceremony,  utter- 
ing no  protest  as  they  filed  off  her  beautiful 
white  teeth  and  blackened  them  with  lime, 
nor  when  they  painted  the  palms  of  her 
hands  and  the  nails  of  her  fingers  and  toes 
red  with  henna.  She  showed  no  interest  in 
the  arranging  of  her  glossy  black  hair 
with  jewelled  pins  and  cbumpaka  flowers,  or 
in  the  draping  of  her  sarong  and  kabaya. 
Only  her  lacerated  gums  ached  until  one 
tear  after  another  forced  its  way  from  between 
her  blackened  lids  down  her  rouged  cheeks. 

There  had  been  feasting  all  day  outside 
under  the  palms,  and  the  youths,  her  many 
cousins,  had  kicked  the  ragga  ball,  while 
the  elders  sat  about  and  watched  and  talked 
and  chewed  betel-nut.  There  were  great 
rice  curries  on  brass  plates,  with  forty  sam- 
buh)  within  easy  reach  of  all,  luscious  man- 
gosteens,  creamy  durians  and  mangoes,  and 
betel-nuts  with  lemon  leaves  and  lime  and 


Amok!  123 


spices.  Fires  burned  about  among  the  grace- 
ful palms  at  night,  and  lit  up  the  silken  sa- 
rongs and  polished  kris  handles  of  the  men, 
and  gold-run  kabayas  of  the  women. 

The  Prince  came  as  he  promised,  just  as 
the  old  Kadi  had  pronounced  the  couple 
man  and  wife,  and  laid  at  Anak's  feet  a 
wide  gold  bracelet  set  with  sapphires,  and 
engraven  with  the  arms  of  Johore.  He 
dropped  his  eyes  to  conceal  the  look  of  pity 
and  abhorrence  that  her  swollen  gums  and 
disfigured  features  inspired,  and  as  he  passed 
across  the  mats  on  the  bamboo  floor  he  in- 
wardly cursed  the  customs  of  his  people 
that  destroyed  the  beauty  of  its  women. 
He  had  lived  among  the  English  of  Singa- 
pore, and  dined  at  the  English  Governor's 
table. 

A  groan  escaped  the  girl's  lips  as  she 
dropped  back  among  the  cushions  of  her 
tinsel  throne.  Noa  saw  the  little  tragedy, 
and  for  the  first  time  understood  its  full 


124      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

import.  He  ground  his  teeth  together,  and 
his  hand  worked  uneasily  along  the  scabbard 
of  his  kris. 

In  another  moment  the  room  was  empty, 
and  the  bride  and  groom  were  left  side  by 
side  on  the  gaudily  bedecked  platform,  to 
mix  and  partake  of  their  first  betel-nut 
together.  Mechanically  Noa  picked  the 
broken  fragments  of  the  nut  from  its  brass 
cup,  from  another  a  syrah  leaf  smeared  with 
lime,  added  a  clove,  a  cardamom,  and  a 
scraping  of  mace,  and  handed  it  to  his 
bride.  She  took  it  without  raising  her  eyes, 
and  placed  it  against  her  bleeding  gums.  In 
a  moment  a  bright  red  juice  oozed  from  be- 
tween her  lips  and  ran  down  the  corner  of 
her  distorted  mouth.  Noa  extended  his 
hand,  and  she  gave  him  the  half-masticated 
mass.  He  raised  it  to  his  own  mouth,  and 
then  for  the  first  time  looked  the  girl  full  in 
the  face. 

There  was   no   love-light   in    the    drooping 


Amok!  125 


brown  eyes  before  him.  The 
lips  were  slightly  parted,  exposing  the  fever- 
ish gums,  and  short,  black  teeth.  Her  hands 
hung  listlessly  by  her  side,  and  only  for  the 
color  that  came  and  went  beneath  the  rouge 
of  her  brown  cheeks,  she  might  have  been 
dead  to  this  last  sacred  act  of  their  marriage 
vows. 

"  Anak  !  "  he  said  slowly,  drawing  closer  to 
her  side.  "  Anak,  I  will  be  a  true  husband 
to  you.  You  shall  be  my  only  wife  — " 

He  paused,  expecting  some  response,  but 
she  only  gazed  stolidly  up  at  the  smoke- 
begrimed  attap  of  the  roof. 

"Anak  — "  he  repeated,  and  then  a  shud- 
der passed  through  him,  and  his  eyes  lit  up 
with  a  wild,  frenzied  gleam. 

A  moment  he  paused  irresolute,  and  then 
with  a  spring  he  grasped  the  golden  handle 
of  his  krtSy  and  with  one  bound  was  across 
the  floor,  and  on  the  sand  below  among 
the  revellers. 


i26      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

For  an  instant  the  snake-like  blade  of  the 
kris  shone  dully  in  the  firelight  above  his 
head,  and  then  with  a  yell  that  echoed  far 
out  among  the  palms,  it  descended  straight 
into  the  heart  of  the  nearest  Malay. 

The  hot  life-blood  spurted  out  over  his 
hand  and  naked  arm,  and  dyed  the  creamy 
silk  of  his  wedding  baju  a  dark  red. 

Once  more  he  struck,  as  he  chanted  a 
promise  from  the  Koran,  and  the  shrill, 
agonized  cry  of  a  woman  broke  upon  the 
ears  of  the  astonished  guests. 

Then  the  fierce  sinister  yell  of  "  Amok ! 
amok!"  drowned  the  woman's  moans,  and 
sent  every  Malay's  hand  to  the  handle  of 
his  kris. 

"  Amok  !  "  sprang  from  every  man's  lips, 
while  women  and  children,  and  those  too 
aged  to  take  part  in  the  wild  saturnalia  of 
blood  that  was  to  follow,  scattered  like 
doves  before  a  hawk. 

With  the  rapidity  of  a  Malayan  tiger,  the 


Amok! 


127 


crazed  man  leaped  from  one  to  another, 
dealing  deadly  strokes  with  his  merciless 
weapon,  right  and  left.  There  was  no 
gleam  of  pity  or  recognition  in  his  insane 
glance  when  he  struck  down  the  sister  he 
had  played  with  from  childhood,  neither  did 
he  note  that  his  father's  hand  had  dealt  the 
blow  that  dropped  his  right  arm  helpless  to 
his  side.  Only  a  cry  of  baffled  rage  and 
hate  escaped  his  lips,  as  he  snatched  his 
falling  knife  with  his  left  hand.  Another 
blow,  and  his  father  fell  across  the  quiver- 
ing body  of  his  sister. 

"  O  Allah,  the  all-merciful  and  loving 
kind ! "  he  sang,  as  the  blows  rained  upon 
his  face  and  breast.  "  O  Allah,  the  com- 
passionate." 

The  golden  handle  of  his  kris  shone  like 
a  dying  coal  in  the  centre  of  a  circle  of 
flamelike  knives  ;  then  with  one  wild  plunge 
forward,  into  the  midst  of  the  gleaming 
points,  it  went  out. 


128       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

"Sudab! —  It  is  finished/'  and  a  Malay 
raised  his  steel-bladed  timbing  to  thrust  it 
into  the  bare  breast  of  the  dying  man. 

The  young  Prince  stepped  out  into  the 
firelight  and  raised  his  hand.  The  long, 
shrill  wail  of  a  tiger  from  far  off  toward 
Mount  Ophir  seemed  to  pulsate  and  quiver 
on  the  weird  stillness  of  the  night. 

Noa  opened  his  eyes.  They  were  the 
eyes  of  a  child,  and  a  faint,  sweet  smile 
flickered  across  the  ghastly  features  and 
died  away  in  a  spasm  of  pain. 

A  picture  of  their  childhood  days  flashed 
through  the  mind  of  the  Prince  and  softened 
the  haughty  lines  of  his  young  face.  He 
saw,  through  it  all,  the  wharf  below  the 
palace  grounds,  —  the  fat  old  penager  dozing 
in  the  sun,  —  the  raft  they  built  together, 
and  the  birch-colored  crocodiles  that  lay 
among  the  sinuous  mangrove  roots. 

"  Noa,"  he  whispered,  as  he  imperiously 
motioned  the  crowd  back. 


Amok!  129 


The  dying  man's  lips  moved.  The  Prince 
bent  lower. 

"She  —  loved  —  you.  Yes  —  "  Noa  mut- 
tered, striving  to  hold  his  failing  breath, — 
"love  is  from — Allah.  But  not  for  —  me; 
—  for  English  —  and  —  Princes." 

They  threw  his  body  without  the  circle 
of  the  fires. 

The  tense  feline  growl  of  the  tiger  grew 
more  distinct.  The  Prince's  hand  sought 
the  jewelled  handle  of  his  kris.  There  was 
a  swift  rush  in  the  darkness,  a  crashing 
among  the  rubber-vines,  a  short,  quick 
snarl,  and  then  all  was  still. 

If  you  run  amok  in  Malaya,  you  may 
kill  your  enemy  or  your  dearest  friend,  but 
you  will  be  krissed  in  the  end  like  a  pariah 
dog.  Every  man,  woman,  and  child  will 
turn  his  hand  against  you,  from  the  mother 
who  bore  you  to  the  outcast  you  have  be- 
friended. 

The  laws  are  as  immutable  as  fate. 


Lepas's   Revenge 
tEale  of  a 


A  •  ^HERE  were  many  monkeys  —  I  came 
•*-  near  saying  there  were  hundreds  —  in 
the  little  clump  of  jungle  trees  back  of  the 
bungalow.  We  could  lie  in  our  long  chairs, 
any  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  house,  and  watch  them 
from  behind  the  bamboo  "  chicks  "  swinging 
and  playing  in  the  maze  of  rubber-vines. 

They  played  tag  and  high-spy,  and  a 
variety  of  other  games.  When  they  were 
tired  of  playing,  they  fell  to  quarrelling, 
scolding,  and  chasing  each  other  among  the 
stiff,  varnished  leaves,  making  so  much  noise 
that  I  could  not  get  my  afternoon  nap,  and 
often  had  to  call  to  the  syce  to  throw 
a  stone  into  the  branches.  Then  they 
would  scuttle  away  to  the  topmost  parts  of 

130 


Lepas's  Revenge  131 

the  great  trees  and  there  join  in  giving 
me  a  rating  that  ought  to  have  made  me 
ashamed  forever  to  look  another  monkey  in 
the  face. 

One  day,  I  went  out  and  threw  a  stick  at 
them  myself,  and  the  next  day  I  found  my 
shoes,  which  the  Chinese  "  boy "  had  pipe- 
clayed and  put  out  in  the  sun  to  dry,  miss- 
ing ;  and  the  day  after  I  found  the  netting 
of  my  mosquito  house  torn  from  top  to 
bottom. 

So  I  was  not  in  the  best  of  humors  when 
I  was  awakened,  one  afternoon,  by  the 
whistling  of  a  monkey  close  to  my  chair. 
I  reached  out  quickly  for  my  cork  helmet 
which  I  had  thrown  down  by  my  side.  As 
it  was  there,  I  looked  up  in  surprise  to  see 
what  had  become  of  my  visitor. 

There  he  sat  up  against  the  railing  of  the 
veranda  with  his  legs  cramped  up  under 
him,  ready  to  flee  if  I  made  a  threatening 
gesture.  His  face  was  turned  toward  me, 


132       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

with  the  thin,  hairless  skin  of  its  upper  lip 
drawn  back,  showing  a  perfect  row  of  milk- 
white  teeth  that  were  chattering  in  deadly 
terror.  The  whole  expression  of  his  face 
was  one  of  conciliation  and  entreaty. 

I  knew  that  it  was  all  make-believe,  so  I 
half  closed  my  eyes  and  did  not  move.  The 
chattering  stopped.  The  little  fellow  looked 
about  curiously,  drew  his  mouth  up  into  a 
pucker,  whistled  once  or  twice  to  make  sure 
I  was  not  awake,  and  reached  out  his  bony 
arm  for  a  few  crumbs  of  cake  that  had  fallen 
near. 

He  was  not  more  than  a  foot  in  height. 
His  diminutive  body  seemed  to  have  been 
fitted  into  a  badly  worn  skin  that  was  two 
sizes  too  large  for  him,  and  the  scalp  of  his 
forehead  moved  about  like  an  overgrown 
wig. 

He  was  the  most  ordinary  kind  of  gray, 
jungle  monkey,  not  even  a  wab-wab  or 
spider  face. 


Lepas's  Revenge  133 

"Well/*  I  said,  after  we  had  thoroughly 
inspected  each  other,  "where  are  my 
shoes  ? " 

Like  a  flash  the  whistling  ceased,  and  with 
a  pathetic  trembling  of  his  thin  upper  lip 
he  commenced  to  beg  with  his  mouth,  and 
to  put  up  his  homely  little  hands  in  mute 
appeal. 

For  a  moment  I  feared  he  would  go  into 
convulsions,  but  I  soon  discovered  that  my 
sympathy  had  been  wasted. 

Then  I  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  that 
there  was  a  leather  strap  around  his  body 
just  in  front  of  his  back  legs,  and  that  a 
string  was  attached  to  it,  which  ran  through 
the  railings  and  off  the  veranda.  I  looked 
over,  and  there,  squatting  on  his  sandalled 
feet,  was  a  Malay,  with  the  other  end  of 
the  string  in  his  hand. 

He  arose,  smiling,  touched  his  forehead 
with  the  back  of  his  brown  palm,  and  asked 
blandly :  — 


134      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

"  Tuan,  want  to  buy  ?  " 

The  calm  assurance  of  the  man  amused 
me. 

"What,  that  miserable  little  monkey  ? "  I 
said.  "  Do  you  take  me  for  a  tourist  ? 
Look  up  in  those  trees  and  you  will  see 
monkeys  that  know  boiled  rice  from  padi" 

The  man  grinned  and  showed  his  brill- 
iantly red  teeth  and  gums. 

"  Tuan  see.  This  monkey  very  wise," 
and  he  made  a  motion  with  his  stick.  The 
little  fellow  sprang  from  the  railing  to  his 
bare  head,  and  sat  holding  on  to  his  long 
black  hair. 

"  See,  Tuan,"  and  he  made  another  mo- 
tion, and  the  monkey  leaped  to  the  ground 
and  commenced  to  run  around  his  master, 
hopping  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the 
other,  raising  his  arms  over  his  head  like  a 
ballet  dancer.  After  every  revolution  he 
would  stop  and  turn  a  handspring. 

The    Malay  all  the  time  kept  up  a  dron- 


Lepas's  Revenge 


ing  kind  of  a  song  in  his  native  tongue, 
improvising  as  he  went  along. 

The  tenor  of  it  was  that  one  Hamat,  a 
poor  Malay,  but  a  good  Mohammedan,  who 
had  never  been  to  Mecca,  wanted  to  go  to 
become  a  Hadji.  He  had  no  money  but 
he  had  a  good  monkey  that  was  very  dear 
to  him.  He  had  found  it  in  a  distant  jun- 
gle, beyond  Johore,  when  a  little  baby  ;  had 
brought  it  up  like  one  of  his  own  children 
and  had  taught  it  to  dance  and  salaam. 

Now  he  must  sell  the  monkey  to  the 
great  Tuan,  or  Lord,  that  the  money  might 
help  take  him  to  Mecca.  The  monkey 
must  dance  well  and  please  the  mighty 
Tuan. 

As  the  little  fellow  danced,  he  kept  one 
eye  on  me  as  though  he  understood  it  all. 

"  How  old  is  he  ?  "  I  asked,  becoming 
interested. 

"Just  as  old  as  your  Excellency  would 
like,"  he  replied,  bowing. 


136      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

"Is  he  a  year  old?" 

"  If  the  Tuan  please." 

"  Well,  how  much  do  you  want  for  him  ? " 

"What  your  Excellency  can  give." 

"  Twenty-five  dollars  ?  "   I  asked. 

His  face  lit  up  from  chin  to  forehead. 
He  hitched  nervously  at  the  folds  of  his 
sarong,  and  changed  the  quid  of  red  betel- 
nut  from  one  corner  of  his  mouth  to  the 
other. 

"  Here,  Hamat,"  I  said,  laughing,  "  here 
is  five  dollars ;  take  it ;  when  you  come  back 
from  Mecca  with  a  green  turban  come  and 
see  me.  If  I  am  sick  of  the  monkey,  you 
can  have  him  back." 

So  commenced  our  acquaintance  with  Le- 
pas.  We  got  into  the  habit  of  calling  him 
Lepas,  because  it  was  the  Malay  for  "let 
go,"  which  definition  we  broadened  until  it 
became  a  term  of  correction  for  every  form 
of  mischief.  He  was  such  a  restless,  active 
little  imp,  with  hands  into  everything  and 


JUST    A    GRAY,  JUNGLE    MONKEY 

"Lepas  would  sit  for  hours  cuddled  up  in  the  mistress's  lap  " 


Lepas's  Revenge 


upon  everything,  that  it  was  "  Lepas  !  "  from 
morning  to  night. 

He  soon  learned  the  word's  twofold 
meaning.  If  we  said  "  Lepas  "  sternly,  he 
subsided  at  once  ;  but  when  we  called  it 
pleasantly  he  came  running  across  the  room 
and  leaped  into  our  laps. 

It  did  not  take  Lepas  as  long  to  forget 
his  former  master  as  it  did  to  forget  his 
former  habits.  In  truth,  his  civilization 
was  never  more  than  skin  deep. 

He  would  sit  for  hours  cuddled  up  in 
the  mistress's  lap,  playing  with  her  work 
and  making  deft  slaps  at  passing  flies,  until 
he  had  thoroughly  convinced  her  of  his  per- 
fect trustworthiness.  Then,  the  moment  her 
back  was  turned,  he  would  slip  away  to  her 
bureau,  and  such  a  mess  as  he  would  make 
of  her  ribbons  and  laces  ! 

I  think  he  liked  the  servants  better  than 
he  did  us.  He  would  dance  and  turn  hand- 
springs and  salaam  for  them,  but  never  for 


138      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

the  mistress  or  myself.  Such  tricks,  he 
seemed  to  think,  were  beneath  his  new  po- 
sition in  society. 

He  had  a  standing  grudge  against  me, 
however,  for  insisting  on  his  bath  in  the  big 
Shanghai  jar  every  day,  and  took  delight  in 
rolling  in  the  red  dust  of  the  road  the  mo- 
ment he  was  through. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  had  a  feud  with 
the  monkeys  in  the  trees,  back  of  the  house. 
He  would  stand  on  the  ground,  within  easy 
reach  of  the  house,  and  as  saucily  as  you 
please,  till  they  were  worked  up  into  a  white 
heat  of  rage  over  his  remarks. 

Once  he  caught  a  baby  monkey  that  had 
become  entangled  in  the  wiry  lallang  grass 
under  the  trees,  and  dragged  it  screeching 
into  the  house.  Before  we  could  get  to  him 
he  had  nearly  drowned  it  by  treating  it  to  a 
bath,  —  an  act,  I  suppose,  intended  to  con- 
vey to  me  his  opinion  of  my  humane  efforts 
to  keep  him  clean. 


Lepas's  Revenge  139 

I  expected  as  a  matter  of  course  to  lose 
another  pair  of  shoes  or  something,  in  pay- 
ment for  this  unneighborly  behavior,  but  the 
colony  in  the  trees  seemed  to  know  that  I 
was  innocent.  It  was  not  long  before  they 
caught  the  true  culprit,  and  gave  him  such 
a  beating  that  he  was  quiet  and  subdued  for 
days. 

But  Lepas  was  a  lovable  little  fellow  with 
all  his  mischief.  Every  afternoon  when  I 
came  home  from  the  office,  tired  out  with  the 
heat  and  the  fierce  glare  of  the  sun,  he  would 
hop  over  to  my  chair,  whistle  soothingly,  and 
make  funny  little  chirrups  with  his  lips,  until 
I  noticed  him. 

Then  he  would  crawl  quietly  up  the  legs 
of  the  chair  until  he  reached  my  shoulder, 
where  he  would  commence  with  his  cool 
little  fingers  to  inspect  my  eyes  and  nose, 
and  to  pick  over  carefully  each  hair  of  my 
mustache  and  head. 

So  we  forgave  him  when  he  pulled  all  the 


140      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

feathers  out  of  a  ring-dove  that  was  a 
valued  present  from  an  old  native  rajah ; 
when  he  turned  lamp-oil  into  the  ice  cream, 
and  when  he  broke  a  rare  Satsuma  bowl  in 
trying  to  catch  a  lizard.  He  was  always  so 
penitent  after  each  misadventure ! 

We  had  heard  that  Hamat  had  sailed  for 
Jedda  with  a  shipload  of  pilgrims  and  were 
therefore  expecting  him  back  soon ;  but  we 
had  decided  not  to  give  up  Lepas.  He  had 
become  a  sort  of  necessity  about  the  house. 

Next  door  to  us,  lived  a  high  official  of 
the  English  service.  He  was  a  sour,  cross 
old  man  and  did  not  like  pets.  Even  the 
monkeys  in  the  trees  knew  better  than  to 
go  into  his  "compound,"  or  inclosure. 

But  Lepas  started  off  on  a  voyage  of  dis- 
covery one  day,  and  not  only  invaded  his 
compound,  but  actually  entered  his  house. 
The  official  caught  him  in  the  act  of  hiding 
his  shaving-set  between  the  palm  thatch  of 
the  roof  and  the  cheese-cloth  ceiling.  Recog- 


Lepas's  Revenge  141 

nizing  Lepas,  he  did  not  kill  him,  but  took 
him  by  his  leathern  girdle  and  soused  him 
in  his  bath-tub,  until  he  was  so  near  dead 
that  it  took  him  hours  to  crawl  home. 

Lepas  went  around  with  a  sad,  injured 
expression  on  his  wrinkled  little  face,  for 
days.  Not  even  a  mangosteen  sprinkled 
with  sugar  could  awaken  his  enthusiasm. 

He  went  so  far  as  to  make  up  with  the 
monkeys  in  the  trees,  and  once  or  twice  I 
caught  him  condescending  to  have  a  game 
of  leap-frog  with  them.  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  he  had  determined  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf,  but  the  syce  shook  his  head  knowingly 
and  said :  — 

"  Lepas  all  the  time  thinking.  He  thinks 
bad  things." 

And  so  it  proved. 

One  night  the  mistress  gave  a  very  big 
dinner  party.  The  high  official  from  next 
door  was  there.  So  were  several  other  high 
officials  of  Singapore,  the  general  command- 


142       Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

ing  her  Majesty's  troops,  and  the  foreign 
consuls  and  members  of  Legislative  Council. 

It  was  a  hot  night,  and  the  punkah- 
wallah  outside  kept  the  punkah,  or  mechan- 
ical fan,  switching  back  and  forth  over  our 
heads  with  a  rapidity  that  made  us  fear  its 
ropes  would  break,  as  very  often  happened. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  crash,  and  a  cham- 
pagne glass  struck  squarely  in  the  high 
official's  soup  and  spattered  it  all  over  his 
white  expanse  of  shirt  front.  We  all  looked 
up  at  the  punkah.  At  the  same  instant  a 
big,  soft  mango  smashed  in  the  high  offi- 
cial's face  and  changed  its  ruddy  red  color 
to  a  sickly  yellow. 

The  women  screamed,  and  the  men  jumped 
up  from  the  table.  Then  began  a  regular 
fusillade  of  wine  glasses  and  tropical  fruits. 

Sometimes  they  hit  the  high  official  from 
next  door,  at  whom  they  all  seemed  to  be 
aimed,  but  more  often  they  fell  upon  the 
table,  among  the  glass  and  dishes.  In 


Lepas's  Revenge  143 

a  moment  everything  was  in  wild  confu- 
sion, and  the  mistress's  beautifully  decorated 
table  looked  as  though  a  bomb  had  ex- 
ploded on  it. 

The  Chinese  "  boys  "  made  a  rush  for  the 
end  of  the  room,  and  there,  up  on  the  side- 
board, among  the  glass,  pelting  his  enemy, 
the  high  official,  as  fast  as  he  could  throw, 
was  Lepas. 

A  ringer  bowl  struck  the  butler  full  in 
the  face,  and  gave  the  monkey  time  to 
make  his  escape  out  into  the  darkness 
through  the  wide-open  doors. 

We  saw  nothing  more  of  Lepas  for  a 
week  or  more ;  we  had,  indeed,  about  given 
him  up,  wondering  as  to  his  whereabouts, 
when  one  afternoon,  as  I  was  taking  my 
usual  post-tiffin  siesta  on  the  cool  side  of  the 
great,  wide-spreading  veranda,  I  'heard  a  timid 
whistle,  and  looked  up  to  see  Lepas  seated 
on  the  railing,  as  sad  and  humble  as  any 
truant  schoolboy. 


144      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

His  hair  was  matted  and  faded  and  his 
face  was  dirty.  His  form  had  lost  some  of 
the  plumpness  that  had  come  to  it  with 
good  living,  but  there  was  the  same  wicked 
twinkle  in  his  eyes,  and  the  same  hypocriti- 
cal deceit  in  his  bearing  as  of  old. 

I  reached  out  my  hand  to  take  him,  but 
he  hopped  a  few  feet  away  and  began  to  beg 
with  his  teeth. 

"  Lepas,"  I  said,  "  you  have  a  bad  heart. 
I  wash  my  hands  of  you.  When  Hamat 
comes  back  you  can  go  to  him  and  be  an 
ordinary,  low  caste  monkey.  Now  go !  I 
never  want  to  see  you  again ! " 

Lepas  puckered  up  his  lips  and  whistled 
mournfully  for  a  few  moments,  but  seeing 
no  sign  of  forgiveness  in  my  face  he  jumped 
down  and  began  to  turn  handsprings  and 
dance  with  the  most  demure  grace. 

I  took  no  notice  of  him,  and  after  a  few 
vain  efforts  to  attract  my  attention,  he 
hopped  dejectedly  off  the  veranda  across  the 


Lepas's  Revenge  145 

lawn,  and  disappeared  among  the  timboso 
trees  and  rubber-vines. 

Two  weeks  later  Hamat  returned  from 
Mecca.  He  paid  me  a  visit  in  state  — 
white  robe  and  green  turban.  I  shook 
hands  and  called  him  by  his  new  title  of 
nobility,  Tuan  Hadji,  but  he  did  not  refer 
to  Lepas. 

Before  many  minutes  he  commenced  to 
look  wistfully  about.  I  pointed  to  the  trees 
back  of  the  house.  He  went  out  under 
them  and  called  two  or  three  times. 

There  was  a  great  chattering  among  the 
rubber-vines,  and  in  a  moment  down  came 
Lepas  and  sprang  to  his  old  master's  shoul- 
der as  happy  as  a  lover. 

I  never  saw  Lepas  but  once  again,  and 
that  was  one  evening  on  the  ocean  espla- 
nade. He  was  in  the  centre  of  an  admiring 
circle  of  half-nude  Malay  and  Hindu  boys, 
going  through  his  quaint  antics,  while  Hamat 
squatted  before  him  beating  on  a  crocodile- 


146      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

hide  drum  and  singing  a  plaintive,  monoto- 
nous song. 

When  it  was  finished,  Lepas  took  an 
empty  cocoanut  shell  and  went  out  into  the 
crowd  to  collect  pennies. 

I  threw  in  a  dollar.  Lepas  salaamed  low 
as  he  snatched  it  out  and  bit  it  to  test  its 
genuineness.  It  was  his  latest  accomplish- 
ment. Then  he  hid  himself  among  the 
laughing  crowd. 

That  Lepas  knew  me,  I  could  tell  by  the 
droop  in  his  eye  and  the  quick  glance  he 
gave  to  the  right  and  left,  to  see  if  there 
was  room  to  escape  in  case  I  made  an  ef- 
fort to  avenge  my  wrongs. 

I  had  no  desire,  however,  to  renew  the 
acquaintance,  and  was  quite  willing  to  let 
by-gones  be  by-gones. 


King   Solomon's   Mines 

U5eing  an  Account  of  an  Stecent  of  SJDount 
in  spalap,  by  I?i0  (frcellenq?,  fyt 
^akim  of  spaur,  ano  tlje  Writer 


"And  they  came  to  Ophir,  and  fetched  from  thence  gold, 
four  hundred  and  twenty  talents,  and  brought  it  to  King  Sol- 
omon." —  i  KINGS  ix.  28. 

"  For  the  King's  ships  went  to  Tarshish  with  the  servants 
of  Huram;  every  three  years  once  came  the  ships  of  Tarshish, 
bringing  gold  and  silver,  ivory,  and  apes,  and  peacocks.  "  — 
2  CHRONICLES  vra.  2  1  . 

THE  rose  tints  of  a  tropical  sunrise  had 
broken  through  the  heavy  bamboo 
chicks  that  jealously  guarded  the  rapidly  fleet- 
ing half-lights  of  my  room  :  there  came  three 
deferential  taps  at  the  door,  and  the  smiling, 
olive-tinted  face  of  Ah  Minga  appeared  at 
the  opening.  "  Tabek,  Tuan,"  he  saluted, 

H7 


148      Tales  of  the   Malayan  Coast 

as  he  raised  the  mosquito  curtains,  and 
placed  a  tray  of  tea  and  mangosteens  on  a 
table  by  my  side. 

I  sprang  to  the  floor  and  across  the 
heavily  rugged  room,  and  pulled  up  the 
offending  chick. 

Across  the  palace  grounds,  fresh  from  their 
morning  bath,  across  the  broad  river  Maur, 
for  the  nonce  black  in  the  shadow  of  the 
jungle,  across  the  gilded  tops  of  the  jungle, 
forty  miles  away  as  the  crow  flies,  rested  the 
serrated  peak  of  Mount  Ophir. 

Directly  below  me,  a  soldier  in  a  uniform 
of  duck  and  a  rimless  cap  with  a  gold  band 
was  pacing  up  and  down  the  gravelled  walk. 
A  little  farther  on  a  bevy  of  women  and 
children  were  bathing  in  the  tepid  waters  of 
the  river,  while  a  man  in  an  unpainted  prau 
was  keeping  watch  for  a  possible  crocodile. 

The  sun  was  rising  directly  behind  the 
peak,  a  ball  of  liquid  fire.  I  drew  in  a  long 
draught  of  the  warm  morning  air. 


King  Solomon's  Mines  149 

A  Malay  in  a  soft  silken  sarong,  which 
fell  about  his  legs  like  a  woman's  skirt, 
stood  in  the  door. 

"The  Prince  is  awaiting  the  Tuan  Con- 
sul," he  said,  with  a  graceful  salaam. 

I  hurriedly  donned  my  suit  of  white, 
drank  my  tea,  and  followed  him  along  the 
grand  salon,  down  a  broad  flight  of  steps, 
through  a  marble  court,  and  into  the  dining 
room. 

A  great  white  punkab  was  lazily  vibrating 
over  the  heavy  rosewood  table. 

Unko  Sulliman,  the  Prince  Governor  of 
Maur,  came  forward  and  gave  me  his  hand. 

"  It  will  be  a  hard  climb  and  a  hard  day's 
work?"  he  said,  pleasantly,  in  good  English. 

"  I  have  done  worse,"   I  answered. 

"  But  not  under  a  Malayan  sky.  How- 
ever, it  is  your  wish,  and  his  Highness  the 
Sultan  has  granted  it.  The  Chief  Justice 
will  accompany  you,  and  now  you  had  better 
start  before  the  sun  is  high." 


150      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

I  turned  to  the  Tuan  Hakim,  or  Chief 
Justice,  with  a  gesture  of  unconcealed  pleas- 
ure. We  had  shot  crocodiles  the  day  pre- 
vious along  the  banks  of  the  Maur,  and  I 
had  found  him  a  good  shot  and  an  agreeable 
companion.  While  not  as  handsome  a  man 
or  as  striking  a  representative  of  his  race  as 
the  Unko,  or  Prince,  he  was  a  scholar,  and 
could  aid  me  more  than  any  one  else  in  my 
exploration  of  the  ancient  gold  workings 
about  the  base  of  the  famous  mountain. 

The  launch  was  awaiting  us  at  the  pier  in 
front  of  the  Residency,  and  we  took  our 
places  in  the  bow,  and  arranged  our  guns  as 
our  half-naked  crew  worked  her  slowly  into 
mid-stream.  We  hoped  to  get  some  snap 
shots  at  the  crocodiles  that  lined  the  banks 
as  we  steamed  swiftly  up  the  river. 

"  I  am  inclined  to  agree  with  Josephus, 
that  yonder  mountain  is  the  Mount  Ophir 
of  Solomon,  when  I  look  at  this  river.  It 
is  equal  to  our  Hudson,  and  could  easily 


King  Solomon's  Mines  151 

carry  ships  twice  the  size  of  any  he  or 
Huram  ever  floated." 

The  Tuan  Hakim  nodded,  and  kept  his 
eyes  fastened  on  the  nearest  shore. 

The  course  of  the  great  river  seemed  to 
stretch  out  before  us  in  an  endless  line  of 
majestic  circles.  From  shore  to  shore,  at 
high  tide,  it  was  a  mile  in  breadth,  and  so 
deep  that  his  Highnesses  yacht,  the  Pante, 
of  three  hundred  tons'  burden,  could  run  up 
full  fifty  miles. 

For  a  moment  we  caught  a  view  of  the 
wooden  minarets  of  the  little  mosque  at 
Bander  Maharani ;  then  we  dashed  on  into 
the  heart  of  another  great  curve. 

"  What  is  it  your  Koran  says  that  the  wise 
king's  ships  brought  from  Ophir  ? "  he  asked, 
never  taking  his  eyes  off  the  mangrove-bound 
shore. 

"  Gold  and  silver,  ivory,  and  apes,  and 
peacocks,"  I  replied,  quoting  literally  from 
Chronicles. 


152       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

"  Biak  (good)  !  Gold  and  silver  we  have 
plenty.  Your  English  companies  are  taking 
it  out  of  the  land  by  the  pikul.  In  the  old 
days,  before  the  Portuguese  came,  the  handle 
of  every  warrior's  kris  was  of  ivory.  Now 
our  elephants  are  dying  before  the  rifle  of 
the  sportsman.  Soon  our  jungles  will  know 
them  no  more.  Apes  — "  and  he  pointed  at 
the  top  of  a  giant  marbow,  where  a  troop  of 
silver  wah-wahs  were  swinging  from  limb 
to  limb.  "The  glorious  argus  pheasant  you 
have  seen." 

"  Boyab,  Tuan ! "  the  man  at  the  wheel 
sung  out. 

I  grasped  my  Winchester  Express.  Just 
ahead,  half  hidden  by  a  black  labyrinth  of 
scaffold-like  mangrove  roots,  lay  the  huge, 
mud-covered  form  of  a  crocodile. 

The  Tuan  Hakim  raised  his  hand,  and  the 
launch  slowed  down  and  ran  in  under  the  bank. 

"  Now ! "  he  whispered,  and  our  rifles  ex- 
ploded in  unison. 


King  Solomon's  Mines  153 

A  great  splash  of  slimy  red  mud  fell  full 
on  the  front  of  my  spotless  white  jacket, 
another  struck  in  the  water  close  by  the  side 
of  the  boat.  The  wounded  crocodile  had 
sprung  into  the  air  from  his  tail  up,  and 
dropped  back  into  his  wallow  with  a  re- 
sounding thud.  In  another  instant  he  was 
off  the  slippery  bank  and  within  the  security 
of  the  mud-colored  water. 

I  saw  that  my  companion  had  more  to 
tell  me,  possibly  a  native  tradition  of  the 
fabled  riches  that  were  concealed  within  the 
heart  of  the  historic  mountain  that  was  for 
the  moment  framed  in  a  setting  of  green, 
directly  ahead.  I  put  a  fresh  cartridge  into 
the  barrel,  and  leaned  back  in  my  deck  chair. 

The  Chief  Justice  extracted  a  manila  from 
his  case  and  handed  it  to  me. 

"In  the  days  when  Tunku  Ali  III.  ruled 
over  Maur,  from  Malacca  to  the  confines  of 
Johore,  the  Portuguese  came,  and  Albu- 
querque with  his  ships  of  war  and  soldiers 


154      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

in  iron  armor  sought  to  wrest  from  our 
'people  their  cities  and  their  riches.  My 
ancestor  was  a  dato^  —  our  laksamana,  high 
admiral,  of  his  Highness's  fleet.  His  galley 
was  built  of  burnished  teak,  the  lining  of  its 
cabin  was  of  sandalwood,  —  algum  wood  your 
Koran  calls  it,  —  and  the  turret  in  its  stern 
was  covered  with  plates  of  solid  gold.  You 
will  find  record  of  it  to  this  day  in  the  state 
papers  of  Acheen. 

"  For  fully  a  hundred  and  forty  years  did 
the  Emperor  of  Johore  and  his  valiant  allies, 
the  King  of  Acheen  and  the  Sultan  of  Maur, 
seek  to  retake  Malacca  from  the  Portuguese. 
The  Dato  Mamat  was  the  last  laksamana  of 
the  fleet.  With  him  died  the  war  and  the 
secret  of  Mount  Ophir." 

"  The  secret ! "  I  questioned,  as  the  Tuan 
Hakim  paused. 

"  For  one  hundred  and  forty  years  were 
we  at  war  with  the  invaders.  Three  genera- 
tions were  born  and  died  with  arms  in  their 


King  Solomon's  Mines  155 

hands.  No  work  was  done  on  the  land, 
save  by  women  and  children.  Still  we  had 
plenty  of  gold  with  which  to  fit  out  fleet 
after  fleet,  with  which  to  arm  our  soldiers 
and  feed  our  people. 

"  It  came  from  yonder  mountain.  Not 
even  the  Sultan  knew  its  hiding-place.  That 
was  only  trusted  to  one  family,  and  handed 
from  father  to  son  by  word  of  mouth. 

"  Long  before  the  days  of  Solomon  the 
Wise  did  my  family  hold  that  secret  for  the 
state.  It  was  one  of  them  that  gave  the  four 
hundred  and  twenty  talents  to  the  laksamana 
of  Huram's  fleet.  Your  Koran  has  made 
record  of  the  gift.  He  did  not  know  from 
whence  it  came.  He  asked,  and  we  told 
him  from  the  Ophirs,  which  means  from  the 
gold  mines.  Then  it  was  that  he  called  the 
mountain  that  raised  its  head  four  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea,  and  was  the  first  object 
his  lookout  saw  as  they  neared  the  coast, 
c  Mount  Ophir.' 


156      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

cc  No  man,  however  so  bold,  ventured 
within  a  radius  of  fifteen  miles  around  the 
foot  of  the  mountain.  It  was  haunted  by 
evil  spirits.  No  man  save  the  laksamana, 
who  went  twice  a  year  and  brought  away  to 
his  prau,  which  was  moored  on  the  bank  of 
the  Maur  thirty  miles  from  the  mountains, 
ten  great  loads  of  pure  gold,  each  time  over 
one  hundred  bugels.  I  know  not  as  to  the 
truth,  but  it  is  told  that  there  was  one  tribe 
consecrated  to  the  mining  of  the  gold,  not 
one  of  whom  had  ever  been  outside  the 
shadow  of  the  mountain :  that  when  the 
great  admiral  ceased  to  come,  they  blocked 
up  the  entrance  to  the  mines,  planted  trees 
about  the  spot,  and  waited.  One  after  an- 
other died,  until  not  one  was  left. 

"  Such  is  the  tradition  of  my  family, 
Tuan." 

"  But  the  great  laksamana  ? "  I  asked. 
"  I  know  of  the  ancient  riches  of  Malacca. 
Barbosa  tells  us  that  gold  was  so  common 


King  Solomon's  Mines  157 

that  it  was  reckoned  by  the  bbar  of  four 
hundred  weight." 

My  companion  contemplated  the  end  of 
his  manila.  "  Do  you  know  how  died  his 
Highness,  Montezuma  of  Mexico,  Tuan  ? " 

I  bowed. 

"  So  died  my  ancestor  one  hundred  years 
later.  I  will  tell  you  of  it,  that  you  may 
write  his  name  in  your  histories  by  the  side 
of  the  name  of  the  murdered  Sultan  of 
Mexico." 

The  eyes  of  the  little  man  flashed,  and 
he  looked  squarely  into  mine  for  the  first 
time.  Possibly  he  may  have  detected  a 
smile  on  my  face,  at  the  thought  of  placing 
this  leader  of  a  band  of  pirates  side  by  side 
in  history  with  the  once  ruler  of  the  richest 
empire  in  the  New  World,  for  he  paused 
in  the  midst  of  his  narrative  and  said 
rapidly :  — 

"  Must  I  tell  you  what  your  own  writers 
tell  of  the  rulers  of  our  country,  to  make 


158      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Goast 

you  credit  my  tale  ?  It  is  all  here,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  his  head.  "  Everything  that  re- 
lates to  my  home  I  know.  King  Emmanuel 
of  Portugal  wrote  to  his  High  Kadi  at 
Rome,  that  his  general,  the  cruel  Albu- 
querque, had  sailed  to  the  Aurea  Cherso- 
nese, called  by  the  natives  Malacca,  and 
found  an  enormous  city  of  twenty-five  thou- 
sand houses,  that  abounded  in  spices,  gold, 
pearls,  and  precious  stones.  Was  Monte- 
zuma's  capital  greater?"  he  triumphantly 
asked. 

"  It  was  as  great  then  as  Singapore  is  to- 
day. Albuquerque  captured  it,  and  built  a 
fortress  at  the  mouth  of  the  river,  making 
the  walls  fifteen  feet  thick,  all  from  the  ruins 
of  our  mosques.  This  was  in  1513." 

"  Forgive  me,"  I  said  hastily,  "  if  I  have 
seemed  to  cast  doubt  on  the  relative  impor- 
tance of  your  country." 

There  was  a  Malay  kampong,  or  village, 
to  our  right.  Under  the  heavy  green  and 


King  Solomon's  Mines 


yellow  fronds  of  a  cocoanut  grove  were  a 
half-dozen  picturesque  palm-thatched  houses. 
They  were  built  up  on  posts  six  feet  from 
the  ground,  and  a  dozen  men  and  children 
scampered  down  their  rickety  ladders,  as  a 
shrill  blast  from  our  whistle  aroused  them 
from  their  slumbers.  Pressed  against  the 
wooden  bars  of  their  low,  narrow  windows, 
we  could  make  out  the  comely,  brown  faces 
of  the  women.  The  pungbulo,  or  chief, 
walked  sedately  out  to  the  beach,  and 
touched  his  forehead  to  the  ground  as 
he  recognized  his  superior.  The  sunlight 
broke  through  the  enwrapping  cocoanuts, 
and  brought  out  dazzling  white  splotches  on 
the  sandy  floor  before  the  houses.  We 
passed  a  little  space  of  wiry  lallang  grass, 
which  was  waving,  in  the  faint  breeze,  and 
radiating  long,  irregular  lines  of  heat,  that 
under  our  glasses  resembled  the  marking  of 
watered  silk,  and  were  once  more  abreast  the 
green  walls  of  the  impenetrable  jungle. 


160      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

"The  Dato  Mamat  captured  a  Portu- 
guese ship  within  a  man's  voice  from  the 
harbor  of  Malacca.  On  it  was  the  foreign 
Governor's  daughter.  She  was  dark,  almost 
as  dark  as  my  people.  Her  eyes  were  black 
as  night,  with  long,  drooping  lashes,  and  her 
hair  fell  about  her  shapely  neck,  a  mass  of 
waving  curls.  She  was  tall  and  stately,  and 
her  bearing  was  haughty.  The  mighty  Lak- 
samana,  who  had  fought  a  hundred  battles, 
and  had  a  hundred  wives  picked  from  the 
princesses  of  the  kingdom,  —  for  there  were 
none  so  noble  but  felt  honored  in  his 
smiles,  —  loved  this  dark-skinned  foreigner. 
It  was  pitiful ! 

"  His  great  fleet,  which  was  to  have  swept 
the  very  name  of  the  Portuguese  from  the 
face  of  the  earth,  lay  idle  before  the  harbor. 
Its  captains  were  burning  with  ambition,  but 
the  Admiral  would  not  give  the  command, 
and  they  dare  not  disobey. 

"  Day  after   day  went   by  while    the   great 


King  Solomon's  Mines  161 

man  hung  like  a  pariah  dog  on  the  words 
of  his  haughty  captive.  She  scorned  his 
words  of  love,  laughed  at  his  prayers,  and 
sneered  at  his  devotion.  Day  after  day  the 
sun  beat  down  on  the  burnished  decks  of 
the  war  praus.  Night  after  night  the  even- 
ing gun  in  the  besieged  fort  sent  forth  its 
mocking  challenge :  still  the  Dato  made  no 
motion.  Oh,  but  it  was  pitiful !  One  by  one 
the  praus  slipped  away,  —  first  those  from 
Acheen,  and  then  those  from  Johore,  —  but 
the  valiant  Laksamana  saw  them  not.  He 
was  blind  to  all  save  one.  Then  she 
spoke :  c  If  thou  lovest  me  as  thou  boastest, 
and  would  win  my  smiles,  send  me  to  my 
father ;  then  go  and  bring  me  of  this  gold 
of  Ophir,  —  for  the  Dato  had  laid  his  heart 
bare  before  her,  —  enough  to  sink  yon  boat. 
The  daughter  of  a  Braganza  does  not  unite 
herself  with  a  pauper.  When  the  moon  is 
full  again,  I  will  expect  you/ 

"  So  did  the  Laksamana,  to  the  everlasting 


1 62       Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

shame  of  Islam.  When  the  moon  was  full 
he  returned  in  his  shining  prau  before  the 
walls  of  Malacca.  He  brought  from  Ophir, 
of  gold  more  than  enough ;  of  the  pearls  of 
Ceylon  he  brought  a  cbupab  full  to  the 
brim.  He  robbed  his  great  palace,  that  he 
might  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  Portuguese  a 
fortune  such  as  Solomon  only  ever  saw. 
And  yet  the  captains  of  his  fleet  cared  not 
for  the  gold,  so  long  as  the  mighty  Dato 
saved  his  honor.  When  he  left  for  the 
quay,  on  which  stood  the  Governor,  his 
daughter,  and  the  priests  of  their  religion, 
they  said  not  a  word,  for  he  passed  by  with 
averted  face ;  but  each  man  grasped  the 
jewelled  handle  of  his  kris,  and  swore  to 
Allah  under  his  breath  that  should  but  one 
hair  of  the  mighty  Admiral's  head  be  lacking 
when  he  returned,  they  would  cut  the  false 
heart  from  the  woman  and  feed  it  to  the 
dogs. 

"  So     spoke     the     captains ;     but    ere    the 


King  Solomon's  Mines  163 

breath  had  passed  their  lips  their  chief  was 
a  prisoner,  and  the  guns  from  the  fort 
hurled  defiance  at  the  betrayed. 

"It  was  pitiful !     Allah  was  avenged. 

"  Fiercely  raged  the  battle,  and  when  there 
was  a  breach  in  the  walls,  and  the  captain 
besar  had  ordered  the  attack,  the  Portuguese 
held  the  mighty  Laksamana  over  the  walls, 
and  reviled  the  allied  fleets  with  words  of 
derision. 

"  Not  one  moved,  and  all  was  still.  Sud- 
denly the  Admiral  raised  his  head,  and  gazed 
out  and  down  at  his  followers.  Then  he 
spoke,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  reached 
far  out  to  the  most  distant  prau  that  lay 
becalmed  within  the  shadow  of  casurina- 
shaded  Puli. 

"'Allah  il  Allah,  I  have  sinned,  and  I 
must  die.  No  more  shall  my  name  be 
known  in  the  land.  I  am  no  longer  lak- 
samana ;  neither  am  I  a  dato.  Allah  is  just. 
Tuan  Allah  Suka  ! ' 


1 64      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

"A  foreigner  smote  him  in  the  mouth, 
and  a  great  cry  arose  from  without  the 
walls. 

"  The  war  went  on ;  but  day  after  day  did 
the  Governor  send  a  message  to  the  Lak- 
samana  in  the  dungeon.  f  Reveal  the  spot 
where  thy  gold  is  hidden,  and  thy  life  and 
liberty  are  granted/ 

"  Day  by  day  the  Dato  replied,  c  My 
life  is  a  pollution  in  the  nostrils  of  Allah. 
Take  it/ 

"  So  they  laid  the  great  chief  on  the 
stones  of  his  cell,  bound  hand  and  foot,  and 
one  by  one  did  they  break  the  joints  of  his 
toes,  his  fingers,  and  then  the  joints  of  his 
legs  and  arms.  When  they  had  finished, 
and  he  still  lived,  the  woman  came  to  him 
and  mocked  him,  but  the  Admiral  closed  his 
eyes  and  prayed.  £  O  Allah,  the  all-merciful 
and  the  loving  kind,  forgive  me  for  my  err- 
ing heart.  Thou  knowest  that  it  goes  out 
to  this  woman  still.  Let  not  my  country 


King  Solomon's  Mines  165 

suffer  for  my  deeds.  I  gave  unto  thy  ser- 
vant Solomon  of  the  gold  that  has  made  us 
great.  If  thou  canst,  thou  wilt  whisper  the 
secret  of  our  nation  to  one  of  thy  chosen 
people,  that  they  may  have  means  whereby 
to  fight  thy  battles.' 

"And  then  the  woman  raised  her  hand, 
and  with  one  stroke  of  the  axe  an  attendant 
severed  from  his  body  the  head  of  the  once 
mighty  Laksamana  of  the  fleets  of  Johore, 
Acheen  and  Maur. 

"  So  died  the  secret  of  Ophir.  So  fell 
Malacca  forever  into  the  hands  of  the  for- 
eigner." 

The  Tuan  Hakim's  voice  trembled  as  he 
closed.  During  the  tragic  recital  he  had 
dropped  into  the  soft,  melodious  chant  of 
his  nation.  At  times  he  would  lapse  into 
Malay,  and  the  boatmen  would  push  for- 
ward and  listen  with  unconcealed  excitement. 
Then,  as  he  returned  to  English,  they  would 
drop  back  into  their  places,  but  never  take 


1 66      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

their  eyes  off  the  face  of  the  speaker.  Only 
our  China  "  boys "  took  no  interest  in  the 
past  of  Maur.  It  was  tiffin  time,  and  they 
were  anxious  to  set  before  us  our  lunch  of 
rice  curry,  gula  Malacca,  whiskey  and  soda. 

The  sun  was  directly  above  us,  and  the 
fierce,  steely  glare  of  the  Malayan  sky  and 
water  dazzled  our  eyes.  Mount  Ophir  looked 
as  far  ahead  as  ever.  The  winding  course  of 
the  river  seemed  at  times  to  take  us  directly 
away  from  it. 

Just  as  we  had  finished  our  meal,  and  had 
lighted  our  manilas,  the  steersman  turned 
the  little  launch  sharply  about,  and  headed 
directly  for  the  shore.  In  a  moment  we  had 
shot  under  and  through  the  deep  fringe  of 
mangrove  trees,  and  had  emerged  into  the 
jungle.  On  all  sides  the  trees  rose,  colum- 
nar and  straight,  and  the  ground  was  firm, 
although  densely  covered  with  ferns  and 
vines. 

The  launch  stopped,  and  the  chief  turned 


King  Solomon's  Mines  167 

to  me.  cc  Now  for  the  climb.  We  have 
thirty  miles  to  the  base  of  the  mountain. 
We  will  push  on  ten  miles,  and  spend  the 
night  at  a  Malay  village.  The  next  day 
we  will  try  and  reach  the  base  of  the 
mountain." 

I  looked  about  me.  We  might  have  been 
surrounded  by  prison  walls,  for  all  hope 
there  seemed  to  be  of  our  getting  an  inch 
into  the  jungle. 

Our  servants  gathered  up  our  rather  ex- 
tensive impedimenta,  and  sprang  into  the 
water.  We  were  forced  to  follow  suit,  and 
begin  our  day's  march  with  wet  feet.  A  few 
steps  up  the  stream  we  came  upon  an  old 
elephant  track  and  plunged  boldly  in,  —  and 
it  was  in !  For  three  miles  we  labored 
through  a  series  of  the  most  elaborate  mud- 
holes  that  I  have  ever  seen.  The  elephants 
in  breaking  a  path  through  the  jungle  are 
extremely  timid  in  their  boldness.  The  sec- 
ond one  always  steps  in  the  footprints  of 


1 68       Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

the  first.  Year  after  year  it  is  the  same, 
until  in  course  of  time  the  path  is  marked 
by  a  series  of  pitfalls,  often  two  feet  in 
depth ;  and  as  it  rains  nearly  every  day 
they  become  a  seething,  slimy  paste  of  mud. 

Our  heavy  cloth  shoes  and  stockings  did 
not  protect  us  from  the  attacks  of  innumer- 
able leeches;  for  when  we  at  last  reached  an 
open  bit  of  forest  and  sat  down  to  rest,  we 
found  dozens  of  them  attached  to  our  legs 
and  even  on  our  bodies.  They  were  small, 
and  beautifully  marked  with  stripes  of  bright 
yellow. 

It  was  twilight  when  we  neared  the  wel- 
come kampong.  We  had  sent  a  runner  ahead 
to  notify  the  punghulo  of  our  arrival,  and  as 
we  finished  our  struggle  with  the  last  thorny 
rattan,  and  tripped  over  the  last  rubber- 
vine,  we  could  hear  the  shouting  of  men 
and  the  barking  of  dogs.  Evidently  we 
were  expected. 

The    kampong   might   have  been   any  other 


King  Solomon's  Mines  169 

in  the  kingdom,  and  the  little  old  weazened 
pungbulo,  who  came  bowing  and  smiling  for- 
ward, might  have  been  at  the  head  of  any 
one  of  a  hundred  other  kampongs,  —  they 
were  all  so  much  alike.  A  half-dozen  attap 
bungalows,  built  under  a  cocoanut  grove,  all 
facing  toward  a  central  plaza ;  a  score  of 
dogs  for  each  bungalow ;  a  flock  of  feather- 
less  fowls  scratching  and  wallowing  beneath 
them,  and  a  bevy  of  half-naked  children 
playing  with  a  rattan  ball  within  the  light  of 
a  central  fire,  —  made  up  the  details  of  a 
little  picture  of  Malayan  home  life  that  had 
become  very  familiar  to  me  within  the  last 
three  years. 

Our  servants  at  once  set  about  preparing 
supper  before  the  fire,  while  we  for  polite- 
ness' sake  compounded  a  mouthful  of  betel- 
nut  and  syrah  leaf  from  the  punghulo  s  state 
box. 

The  next  morning  we  set  out  for  our 
twenty  miles'  tramp,  along  a  narrow  jungle 


170      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

path,  accompanied  by  some  ten  natives  of 
the  village  whom  my  companion  had  re- 
tained to  cut  a  path  for  us  up  the  moun- 
tain. It  was  a  long,  tiresome  journey,  and 
we  were  heartily  glad  when  it  was  ended, 
and  we  were  encamped  on  the  rocky  banks 
of  a  fern-hid  stream. 

Twice  during  our  day's  march  had  we 
crossed  deep,  ragged  depressions  in  the 
earth,  which  were  overgrown  with  a  jungle 
that  seemed  to  be  coequal  in  age  with  the 
surrounding  trees.  We  did  not  pause  to 
examine  them,  although  our  natives  pointed 
them  out  with  the  expressive  word  mas 
(gold).  We  promised  to  do  that  at  a  later 
date.  On  the  border  of  the  creek  I  found 
some  gold-bearing  rock,  and  while  the  Tuan 
Hakim  was  engaged  in  securing  some 
superb  specimens  of  the  great  atlas  moth,  I 
sat  down  and  crushed  some  fragments  of  it, 
and  obtained  enough  gold  to  satisfy  me  that 
the  rock  would  run  four  ounces  to  the  ton. 


King  Solomon's  Mines  171 

It  was  a  beautiful  night.  We  lay  under 
our  mosquito  netting,  and  gazed  up  through 
the  interlacing  branches  of  the  trees  at  the 
star-strewn  sky,  and  smoked  our  manilas  in 
weary  content.  The  long,  full  "  coo-ee "  of 
the  stealthy  argus  pheasant  sounded  at  inter- 
vals in  distant  parts  of  the  forest.  It  might 
have  been  the  call  of  the  orang-utan,  or  the 
wild  hillmen  of  the  country,  for  they  have 
imitated  the  call  of  this  most  glorious  of  birds. 

The  shrill,  never  ceasing  whir  of  the 
cicada  hardly  attracted  our  attention ;  while 
the  whistle  and  crash  of  a  monkey  that  was 
inspecting  us  from  his  perch  among  the  trees 
above  caused  me  to  peer  upward,  in  hopes  of 
catching  a  glimpse  of  his  grayish  outlines. 

I  had  not  had  an  opportunity  of  asking 
my  companion  for  the  details  of  his  tragic 
story.  I  turned  to  him,  and  found  him 
watching  me  attentively.  "  Were  you  listen- 
ing to  the  call  of  the  coo-ee?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,"   I  answered 


172       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

"It  is  the  queen  of  birds.  I  will  get  you 
one.  I  have  never  shot  one.  They  only 
come  out  at  night,  and  then  only  to  disap- 
pear, but  we  can  trap  them.  It  will  die  in 
captivity.  That  is  why  Solomon  could  not 
keep  them,  and  sent  for  new  ones  every 
three  years." 

"  What  became  of  the  woman  ? "  I  asked. 

"The  body  of  the  Laksamana  was  thrown 
over  the  walls  by  the  Portuguese,"  he  said 
moodily.  "  It  was  embalmed  and  laid  away. 
Two  months  from  that  day  the  woman  was 
walking  outside  the  walls.  The  war  was 
over.  There  was  no  more  gold.  Three  of 
my  people  sprang  upon  her  and  the  Portu- 
guese she  was  to  marry."  He  paused  for 
a  moment  and  looked  up  at  the  stars,  then 
went  on  in  a  cold,  matter-of-fact  tone. 
"  They  were  lashed  to  the  headless  body  of 
the  man  they  had  murdered,  and  thrown 
into  the  royal  tiger-cage,  by  order  of  his 
Highness,  AH,  Sultan  of  Maur." 


King  Solomon's  Mines  173 

I  raised  my  curtain  and  threw  the  stub  of 
my  cigar  out  into  the  darkness,  a  smothered 
exclamation  of  horror  escaping  my  lips. 

"  It  was  the  will  of  Allah.     Good    night." 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  the  next  morn- 
ing before  we  started.  Our  Malays  had 
gone  on  at  daybreak,  to  cut  a  path  up  the 
base  of  the  mountain  to  where  the  open  for- 
est began. 

We  ascended  steadily  up  a  moderate  slope 
for  several  miles,  keeping  the  ravine  on  our 
left.  It  was  comparatively  easy  work  after 
we  had  left  the  jungle  behind.  After  cross- 
ing a  level  plateau  we  once  more  found  our- 
selves in  a  forest  so  dense  that  our  men  had 
to  use  their  parangs  again.  The  heat  of  the 
jungle  was  intense,  and  we  suffered  severely 
from  the  stings  of  a  fly  that  is  not  unlike  a 
cicada  in  shape. 

From  the  jungle  we  emerged  into  an  im- 
mense stone  field, — padang-batuy  the  Malays 
called  it.  It  extended  along  the  mountain 


174       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

side  as  far  as  we  could  see,  in  places  quite 
bare,  at  others  deeply  fissured  and  covered 
with  a  most  luxuriant  vegetation.  We 
tramped  at  times  waist  deep  through  ferns, 
some  green,  some  dark  red,  and  some  lined 
with  yellow,  clumps  of  the  splendid  Dipteris 
Horsfieldi  and  Matonia  pectinala,  with  their 
slender  stems  and  wide-spreading  palmate 
fronds  towering  two  feet  above  our  heads. 
The  delicate  maidenhair  lay  like  a  rich  car- 
pet beneath  our  feet,  while  hundreds  of  mag- 
nificent climbing  pitcher-plants  doused  us 
with  water  as  we  knocked  against  them. 
Our  sympiesometer  showed  us  that  we  were 
twenty-eight  hundred  feet  above  the  sea. 

Beyond  the  fadang-batu  we  entered  a  for- 
est of  almost  Alpine  character,  dwarfed  and 
stunted.  For  several  hours  we  worked  along 
ridges,  descended  into  valleys,  and  ascended 
almost  precipitous  ledges,  until  we  finally 
reached  a  peak  that  was  separated  from  the 
true  mountain  by  a  deep,  forbidding  canon. 


King  Solomon's  Mines 


Several  of  the  older  men  of  the  party 
gave  out,  and  we  were  forced  to  leave  them 
with  half  our  baggage  and  what  water  was 
left  :  there  was  a  spring,  they  told  us,  near 
the  summit. 

The  scramble  down  the  one  side  of  the 
canon,  and  up  the  other,  was  a  hard  hour's 
work.  Its  rocky,  almost  perpendicular  sides 
were  covered  with  a  bushy  vegetation  on 
top  of  a  foundation  of  mosses  and  dead 
leaves,  so  that  it  afforded  us  more  hindrance 
than  help. 

Just  below  the  summit  we  came  to  where 
a  projecting  rock  gave  us  shelter,  and  a 
natural  basin  contained  flowing  water.  Drop- 
ping my  load,  and  hardly  waiting  to  catch 
my  breath,  I  was  on  my  way  up  the  fifty 
feet  that  lay  between  us  and  the  top.  In 
another  moment  I  had  mounted  the  small, 
rocky,  rhododendron-covered  platform,  and 
stood,  the  first  of  my  party,  on  the  summit 
of  Mount  Ophir.  The  little  American  flag 


176       Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

that  I  had  brought  with  me  I  waved  franti- 
cally above  my  head,  much  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  my  attendants. 

Four  thousand  feet  below,  to  the  east, 
stretched  the  silver  sheen  of  the  Indian 
Ocean.  The  smoke  of  a  passing  steamer 
lay  like  a  dark  stain  on  the  blue  and  white 
of  the  sky.  Close  into  the  shore  was  the 
little  capital  town  of  Bander  Maharani,  con- 
necting itself  with  us  by  a  long,  snake-like 
ribbon  of  shimmering  light,  —  the  great  river 
Maur. 

To  the  north  and  west  successive  ranges 
of  hill  and  valley,  divided  by  the  glistening 
river,  and  all  covered  by  an  interminable 
jungle  of  vivid  green,  fell  away  until  lost  in 
the  cloudless  horizon. 

For  a  moment  I  stood  and  gazed  out  over 
the  vast  expanse  that  lay  before  me,  my 
mind  filled  with  the  wild,  unwritten  poetry 
of  its  jungles  and  its  people ;  then  I  turned 
to  my  companion. 


King  Solomon's  Mines  177 

"  It  is  beautiful !  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  But  not  equal  to  the  view  from  our  own 
Mount  Washington." 

"Then  why  take  so  much  trouble  to  se- 
cure it  ?  Mount  Pulei  is  as  high,  and  there 
is  a  good  road  to  its  top." 

I  laughed.  "Mount  Pulei  or  Mount 
Washington  is  not  Ophir." 

"  True ! "  he  answered,  opening  his  eyes 
in  surprise  at  the  seeming  absurdity  of  my 
statement.  "  He  that  told  you  they  were 
speaketh  a  lie." 

We  spent  the  night  on  the  summit,  and 
watched  the  sun  drop  into  the  midst  of  the 
sea,  away  to  the  west.  It  was  cool  and  de- 
lightful after  the  moist,  heat-laden  atmos- 
phere of  the  lowlands,  and  a  strong  breeze 
freed  us  from  the  swarm  of  tiger  mosquitoes 
that  we  had  learned  to  expect  as  the  dark- 
ness came  on. 

Where   the    Ophir   of  the   Bible   really  is, 


1 78       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

will  ever  be  a  question  of  doubt.  To  my 
mind  it  embraces  the  entire  East  —  the 
Malay  Peninsula,  Ceylon,  India,  and  even 
China,  —  Ophir  being  merely  a  comprehen- 
sive term,  possibly  taken  from  this  Mount 
Ophir  of  Johore,  which  signified  the  most 
central  point  of  the  region  to  which  Solo- 
mon's ships  sailed.  For  all  ages  the  gold 
of  the  Malay  Peninsula  has  been  known ; 
from  the  earliest  times  there  has  been  inter- 
course between  the  Arabians  and  the  Malays, 
while  the  Malayan  was  the  very  first  of  the 
far  Eastern  countries  to  adopt  the  Moham- 
medan religion  and  customs. 

All  the  articles  mentioned  in  the  Biblical 
account  of  Mount  Ophir  are  found  in  and 
about  Malacca  in  abundance,  while  on  the 
coast  of  Africa  two  of  them,  peacocks  and 
silver,  are  missing. 

If  the  Hebrew  word  thukyim  is  translated 
peacocks,  and  not  parrots,  then  Solomon's 
ships  must  have  turned  east  after  passing 


King  Solomon's  Mines  179 

the  Straits  of  Bab-el-Mandeb,  and  not  south 
along  the  coast  of  Africa  toward  Sofala. 
For  peacocks  are  only  found  in  India  and 
Malaya. 

It  is  a  singular  fact  that  in  the  language 
of  the  Orang  Bennu,  or  aborigines  of  the  Ma- 
lay Peninsula,  that  word  "  peacocks/'  which 
in  the  modern  Malay  is  marrak,  is  in  the 
aboriginal  chim  marak,  which  is  the  exact 
termination  of  the  Hebrew  tucbim.  Their 
word  for  bird  is  tcbem,  another  surprising 
similarity. 

The  morning  sun  brought  us  to  our  feet 
long  before  it  was  light  in  the  vast  spaces 
beneath  our  eyes.  The  jungle  held  its  red- 
dening rays  for  a  moment;  they  flamed  along 
the  course  of  a  half-hidden  river;  we  stood 
out  clear  and  distinct  in  their  glorious  efful- 
gence, and  then  the  broken,  denuded  crags 
and  ragged  ravines  of  the  padang-batu  ab- 
sorbed them  in  its  black  fastnesses. 

The  gold  of  Mount  Ophir  was  all  about  us. 


i8o      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

The  air,  the  stones,  the  very  trees,  seemed 
to  have  been  transformed  into  the  glorious 
metal  that  the  little  fleets  of  Solomon  and 
Huram  sailed  so  far  to  seek.  The  Aurea 
Chersonese  was  a  breathing,  pulsating  reality. 


Busuk 
of  a  spalapn  <0irlfjooD 


THEY  called  her  Busuk,  or  "the  young- 
est" at  her  birth.  Her  father,  the  old 
fungbulo,  or  chief,  of  the  little  kampong,  or 
village,  of  Passir  Panjang,  whispered  the  soft 
Allah  Akbar,  the  prayer  to  Allah,  in  her 
small  brown  ear. 

The  subjects  of  the  punghulo  brought  pres- 
ents of  sarongs  run  with  gold  thread,  and  not 
larger  than  a  handkerchief,  for  Busuk  to  wear 
about  her  waist.  They  also  brought  gifts 
of  rice  in  baskets  of  cunningly  woven  cocoa- 
nut  fibre  ;  of  bananas,  a  hundred  on  a  bunch  ; 
of  durians,  that  filled  the  bungalow  with  so 
strong  an  odor  that  Busuk  drew  up  her 
wrinkled,  tiny  face  into  a  quaint  frown  ;  and 
of  cocoanuts  in  their  great  green,  oval  shucks. 

iSi 


1 82       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

Busuk's  old  aunt,  who  lived  far  away  up  the 
river  Maur,  near  the  foot  of  Mount  Ophir, 
sent  a  yellow  gold  pin  for  the  hair ;  her  hus- 
band, the  Hadji  Mat,  had  washed  the  gold 
from  the  bed  of  the  stream  that  rushed  by 
their  bungalow. 

Busuk's  brother,  who  was  a  sergeant  in 
his  Highness's  the  Sultan's  artillery  at  Jo- 
hore,  brought  a  tiny  pair  of  sandals  all 
worked  in  many-colored  beads.  Never  had 
such  presents  been  seen  at  the  birth  of  any 
other  of  Punghulo  Sahak's  children. 

Two  days  later  the  Imam  Paduka  Tuan 
sent  Busuk's  father  a  letter  sewn  up  in  a 
yellow  bag.  It  contained  a  blessing  for 
Busuk.  Busuk  kept  the  letter  all  her  life, 
for  it  was  a  great  thing  for  the  high  priest 
to  do. 

On  the  seventh  day  Busuk's  head  was 
shaven  and  she  was  named  Fatima ;  but 
they  called  her  Busuk  in  the  kampong,  and 


Busuk  183 


some  even  called  her  Inchi  Busuk,  the 
princess. 

From  the  low-barred  window  of  Busuk' s 
home  she  could  look  out  on  the  shimmer- 
ing, sunlit  waters  of  the  Straits  of  Malacca. 
The  loom  on  which  Busuk's  mother  wove 
the  sarongs  for  the  punghulo  and  for  her  sons 
stood  by  the  side  of  the  window,  and  Bu- 
suk, from  the  sling  in  which  she  sat  on  her 
mother's  side,  could  see  the  fishing  praus 
glide  by,  and  also  the  big  lumber  tonkangs, 
and  at  rare  intervals  one  of  his  Highnesses 
launches. 

Sometimes  she  blinked  her  eyes  as  a  va- 
grant shaft  of  sunlight  straggled  down 
through  the  great  green  and  yellow  fronds 
of  the  cocoanut  palms  that  stood  about  the 
bungalow ;  sometimes  she  kept  her  little 
black  eyes  fixed  gravely  on  the  flying  shuttle 
which  her  mother  threw  deftly  back  and 
forth  through  the  many-colored  threads ; 
but  best  of  all  did  she  love  to  watch  the 


184      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

little  gray  lizards  that  ran  about  on  the 
palm  sides  of  the  house  after  the  flies  and 
moths. 

She  was  soon  able  to  answer  the  liz- 
ards' call  of  "  gecho,  gecho,"  and  once  she 
laughed  outright  when  one,  in  fright  of  her 
baby-fingers,  dropped  its  tail  and  went 
wiggling  away  like  a  boat  without  a  rudder. 
But  most  of  the  time  she  swung  and 
crowed  in  her  wicker  cradle  under  the  low 
rafters. 

When  Busuk  grew  older,  she  was  carried 
every  day  down  the  ladder  of  the  house  and 
put  on  the  warm  white  sand  with  the  other 
children.  They  were  all  naked,  save  for  a 
little  chintz  bib  that  was  tied  to  their  necks ; 
so  it  made  no  difference  how  many  mud- 
pies  they  made  on  the  beach  nor  how  wet 
they  got  in  the  tepid  waters  of  the  ocean. 
They  had  only  to  look  out  carefully  for  the 
crocodiles  that  glided  noiselessly  among  the 
mangrove  roots. 


Busuk  185 


One  day  one  of  Busuk's  playmates  was 
caught  in  the  cruel  jaws  of  a  crocodile,  and 
lost  its  hand.  The  men  from  the  village 
went  out  into  the  labyrinth  of  roots  that 
stood  up  above  the  flood  like  a  huge  scaf- 
folding, and  caught  the  man-eater  with  ropes 
of  the  gamooty  palm.  They  dragged  it  up 
the  beach  and  put  out  its  eyes  with  red-hot 
spikes  of  the  hard  billion  wood. 

Although  the  varnished  leaves  of  the 
cocoanuts  kept  almost  every  ray  of  sunlight 
out  of  the  little  village,  and  though  the  chil- 
dren could  play  in  the  airy  spaces  under 
their  own  houses,  their  heads  and  faces  were 
painted  with  a  paste  of  flour  and  water  to 
keep  their  tender  skins  from  chafing  in  the 
hot,  moist  air. 

At    evening,    when    the  fierce    sun    went 

down     behind     the     great  banian    tree     that 

nearly    hid    Mount    Pulei,  the    kateeb   would 

sound    the    call    to    prayer  on    a    hollow    log 


1 86      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

that  hung  up  before  the  little  palm-thatched 
mosque.  Then  Busuk  and  her  playmates 
would  fall  on  their  faces,  while  the  holy  man 
sang  in  a  soft,  monotonous  voice  the  prom- 
ises of  the  Koran,  the  men  of  the  kampong 
answering.  " Allah  il  Allah"  he  would  sing, 
and  "  Mohammed  is  his  prophet,"  they  would 
answer. 

Every  night  Busuk  would  lie  down  on  a 
mat  on  the  floor  of  the  house  with  a  little 
wooden  pillow  under  her  neck,  and  when 
she  dared  she  would  peep  down  through  the 
open  spaces  in  the  bamboo  floor  into  the 
darkness  beneath.  Once  she  heard  a  low 
growl,  and  a  great  dark  form  stood  right 
below  her.  She  could  see  its  tail  lashing 
its  sides  with  short,  whip-like  movements. 
Then  all  the  dogs  in  the  kampong  began  to 
bark,  and  the  men  rushed  down  their  lad- 
ders screaming,  "  Harimau  !  Harimau!"  (A 
tiger !  A  tiger !)  The  next  morning  she 
found  that  her  pet  dog,  Fatima,  named  after 


Busuk  187 


herself,  had  been  killed  by  one  stroke  of  the 
great  beast's  paw.  Once  a  monster  python 
swung  from  a  cocoanut  tree  through  the 
window  of  her  home,  and  wound  itself  round 
and  round  the  post  of  her  mother's  loom. 
It  took  a  dozen  men  to  tie  a  rope  to  the 
serpent's  tail,  and  pull  it  out. 

Busuk  went  everywhere  astride  the  pung- 
hulo  s  broad  shoulders  as  he  collected  the  taxes 
and  settled  the  disputes  in  the  little  village. 
She  went  out  into  the  straits  in  the  big  prau 
that  floated  the  star  and  crescent  of  Johore 
over  its  stern,  to  look  at  the  fishing-stakes, 
and  was  nearly  wrecked  by  a  great  water- 
spout that  burst  within  a  few  feet  of  them. 

Then  she  went  twice  to  Johore,  and  gazed 
in  open-eyed  wonder  at  the  palaces  of  the 
Sultan  and  at  the  fort  in  which  her  uncle 
was  an  officer. 

"  Some  day,"  she  thought,  "I  may  see 
his  Highness,  and  he  may  notice  me  and 


1 88      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

smile.  For  had  not  his  Highness  spoken 
twice  to  her  father  and  called  him  a  good 
man  ?  So  whenever  she  went  to  Johore 
she  put  on  her  best  sarong  and  kabaya,  and 
in  her  jetty  black  hair  she  put  the  pin  her 
aunt  had  given  her,  with  a  spray  of  sweet- 
smelling  cbumpaka  flower. 

When  she  was  four  years  old  she  went  to 
the  penager  to  learn  to  read  and  write.  In 
a  few  months  she  could  outstrip  any  one  in 
the  class  in  tracing  Arabic  characters  on  the 
sand-sprinkled  floor,  and  she  knew  whole 
chapters  in  the  Koran. 

So  the  days  were  passed  in  the  little  kam- 
fong  under  the  gently  swaying  cocoanuts,  and 
the  little  Malayan  girl  grew  up  like  her  com- 
panions, free  and  wild,  with  little  thought 
beyond  the  morrow.  That  some  day  she 
was  to  be  married,  she  knew ;  for  since  her 
first  ffirthday  she  had  been  engaged  to 
Mamat,  the  son  of  her  father's  friend,  the 
pungbulo  of  Bander  Bahru. 


Busuk  189 


She  had  never  seen  Mamat,  nor  he  her ; 
for  it  was  not  proper  that  a  Malay  should 
see  his  intended  before  marriage.  She  had 
heard  that  he  was  strong  and  lithe  of  limb, 
and  could  beat  all  his  fellows  at  the  game 
called  ragga.  When  the  wicker  ball  was  in 
the  air  he  never  let  it  touch  the  ground ;  for 
he  was  as  quick  with  his  head  and  feet, 
shoulders,  hips,  and  breast,  as  with  his  hands. 
He  could  swim  and  box,  and  had  once  gone 
with  his  father  to  the  seaports  on  New 
Year's  Day  at  Singapore,  and  his  own  frau 
had  won  the  short-distance  race. 

Mamat  was  three  years  older  than  Busuk, 
and  they  were  to  be  married  when  she  was 
fifteen. 

At  first  she  cried  a  little,  for  she  was  sad 
at  the  thought  of  giving  up  her  playmates. 
But  then  the  older  women  told  her  that  she 
could  chew  betel  when  she  was  married,  and 
her  mother  showed  her  a  little  set  of  betel- 
nut  boxes,  for  which  she  had  sent  to  Singa- 


i  o,o      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

pore.  Each  cup  was  of  silver,  and  the  box 
was  cunningly  inlaid  with  storks  and  cherry 
blossoms.  It  had  cost  her  mother  a  month's 
hard  labor  on  the  loom. 

Then  Mamat  was  not  to  take  her  back 
to  his  father's  bungalow.  He  had  built  a 
little  one  of  his  own,  raised  up  on  palm 
posts  six  feet  from  the  ground,  so  that  she 
need  not  fear  tigers  or  snakes  or  white  ants. 
Its  sides  were  of  plaited  palm  leaves,  every 
other  one  colored  differently,  and  its  roof 
was  of  the  choicest  attap,  each  leaf  bent  care- 
fully over  a  rod  of  rattan,  and  stitched  so 
evenly  that  not  a  drop  of  rain  could  get 
through. 

Inside  there  was  a  room  especially  for  her, 
with  its  sides  hung  with  sarongs,  and  by  the 
window  was  a  loom  made  of  kamooning 
wood,  finer  than  her  mother's.  Outside, 
under  the  eaves,  was  a  house  of  bent  rattan 
for  her  ring-doves,  and  a  shelf  where  her 
silver-haired  monkey  could  sun  himself. 


Busuk 


So  Busuk  forgot  her  grief,  and  she  watched 
with  ill-concealed  eagerness  the  coming  of 
Mamat's  friends  with  presents  of  tobacco 
and  rice  and  bone-tipped  krises.  Then  for 
the  first  time  she  was  permitted  to  open  the 
camphor-wood  chest  and  gaze  upon  all  the 
beautiful  things  that  she  was  to  wear  for 
the  one  great  day. 

Her  mother  and  elder  sisters  had  been 
married  in  them,  and  their  children  would, 
one  after  another,  be  married  in  them  after 
her. 

There  was  a  sarong  of  silk,  run  with 
threads  of  gold  and  silver,  that  was  large 
enough  to  go  around  her  body  twice  and 
wide  enough  to  hang  from  her  waist  to  her 
ankles ;  a  belt  of  silver,  with  a  gold  plate  in 
front,  to  hold  the  sarong  in  place ;  a  kabaya, 
or  outer  garment,  that  looked  like  a  dress- 
ing-gown, and  was  fastened  down  the  front 
with  golden  brooches  of  curious  Malayan 
workmanship ;  a  pair  of  red-tipped  sandals ; 


192       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

and  a  black  lace  scarf  to  wear  about  her 
black  hair.  There  were  earrings  and  a  neck- 
lace of  colored  glass,  and  armlets,  bangles, 
and  gold  pins.  They  all  dazzled  Busuk, 
and  she  could  hardly  wait  to  try  them  on. 

A  buffalo  was  sacrificed  on  the  day  of  the 
ceremony.  The  animal  was  "without  blem- 
ish or  disease. "  The  men  were  careful  not 
to  break  its  fore  or  hind  leg  or  its  spine, 
after  death,  for  such  was  the  law.  Its  legs 
were  bound  and  its  head  was  fastened,  and 
water  was  poured  upon  it  while  the  kadi 
prayed.  Then  he  divided  its  windpipe. 
When  it  was  cooked,  one  half  of  it  was 
given  to  the  priests  and  the  other  half  to 
the  people. 

All  the  guests,  and  there  were  many, 
brought  offerings  of  cooked  rice  in  the  fresh 
green  leaves  of  the  plantain,  and  baskets  of 
delicious  mangosteens,  and  pink  mangoes  and 
great  jack-fruits.  A  curry  was  made  from 


Busuk  193 


the  rice  that  had  forty  sambuls  to  mix  with 
it.  There  were  the  pods  of  the  moringa 
tree,  chilies  and  capsicums,  prawns  and  de- 
cayed fish,  chutneys  and  onions,  ducks'  eggs 
and  fish  roes,  peppers  and  cucumbers  and 
grated  cocoanuts. 

It  was  a  wonderful  curry,  made  by  one 
of  the  Sultan's  own  cooks ;  for  the  Punghulo 
Sahak  spared  no  expense  in  the  marriage  of 
this,  his  last  daughter,  and  a  great  feast  is 
exceedingly  honorable  in  the  eyes  of  the 
guests. 

Busuk's  long  black  hair  had  to  be  done 
up  in  a  marvellous  chignon  on  the  top  of 
her  head.  First,  her  maids  washed  it  beau- 
tifully clean  with  the  juice  of  the  lime  and 
the  lather  of  the  soap-nut;  then  it  was 
combed  and  brushed  until  every  hair  glis- 
tened like  ebony ;  next  it  was  twisted  up 
and  stuck  full  of  the  quaint  golden  and 
tortoise-shell  bodkins,  with  here  and  there  a 
spray  of  jasmine  and  cbumpaka. 


194      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

Busuk's  milky-white  teeth  had  to  be  filed 
off  more  than  a  fourth.  She  put  her  head 
down  on  the  lap  of  the  woman  and  closed 
her  eyes  tight  to  keep  back  the  hot  tears 
that  would  fall,  but  after  the  pain  was  over 
and  her  teeth  were  blackened,  she  looked  in 
the  mirror  at  her  swollen  gums  and  thought 
that  she  was  very  beautiful.  Now  she  could 
chew  the  betel-nut  from  the  box  her  mother 
had  given  her ! 

The  palms  of  her  hands  and  the  nails  of 
her  fingers  and  toes  were  painted  red  with 
henna,  and  the  lids  of  her  eyes  touched  up 
with  antimony.  When  all  was  finished,  they 
led  her  out  into  the  great  room,  which  was 
decorated  with  mats  of  colored  palm,  masses 
of  sweet-smelling  flowers  and  maidenhair 
fern.  There  they  placed  her  in  the  chair 
of  state  to  receive  her  relatives  and  friends. 

She  trembled  a  little  for  fear  Mamat 
would  not  think  her  beautiful,  but  when, 


Busuk  195 


last  of  all,  he  came  up  and  smiled  and 
claimed  the  bit  of  betel-nut  that  she  was 
chewing  for  the  first  time,  and  placed  it  in 
his  mouth,  she  smiled  back  and  was  very 
happy. 

Then  the  kadi  pronounced  them  man  and 
wife  in  the  presence  of  all,  for  is  it  not  writ- 
ten, "Written  deeds  may  be  forged,  de- 
stroyed, or  altered  ;  but  the  memory  of  what 
is  transacted  in  the  presence  of  a  thousand 
witnesses  must  remain  sacred  ?  Allah  il 
Allah ! "  And  all  the  people  answered, 
"Suka!  Suka!"  (We  wish  it!  We  wish 
it!) 

Then  Mamat  took  his  seat  on  the  dais 
beside  the  bride,  and  the  punghulo  passed 
about  the  betel-box.  First,  Busuk  took  out 
a  syrah  leaf  smeared  with  lime  and  placed 
in  it  some  broken  fragments  of  the  betel-nut, 
and  chewed  it  until  a  bright  red  liquid  oozed 
from  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  The  others 
did  the  same. 


196      Tales  of  the    Malayan   Coast 

Then  the  women  brought  garlands  of 
flowers  —  red  allamandas,  yellow  convolvulus, 
and  pink  hibiscus  —  and  hung  them  about 
Busuk  and  Mamat,  while  the  musicians  out- 
side beat  their  crocodile-hide  drums  in  frantic 
haste. 

The  great  feast  began  out  in  the  sandy  plaza 
before  the  houses.  There  was  cock-fighting 
and  kicking  the  ragga  ball,  wrestling  and  box- 
ing, and  some  gambling  among  the  elders. 

Toward  night  Busuk  was  put  in  a  rattan 
chair  and  carried  by  the  young  men,  while 
Mamat  and  the  girls  walked  by  her  side,  a 
mile  away,  where  her  husband's  big  cadjang- 
covered  frau  lay  moored.  It  was  to  take 
them  to  his  bungalow  at  Bander  Bahru. 
The  band  went,  too,  and  the  boys  shot  off 
guns  and  fire-crackers  all  the  way,  until 
Busuk's  head  swam,  and  she  was  so  happy 
that  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes  and  trickled 
down  through  the  rouge  on  her  cheeks. 

So    ended    Busuk's    childhood.     She     was 


Busuk  197 


not  quite  fifteen  when  she  became  mistress 
of  her  own  little  palm-thatched  home.  But 
it  was  not  play  housekeeping  with  her ;  for 
she  must  weave  the  sarongs  for  Mamat  and 
herself  for  clothes  and  for  spreads  at  night, 
and  the  weaving  of  each  cost  her  twenty  days' 
hard  labor.  If  she  could  weave  an  extra 
one  from  time  to  time,  Mamat  would  take 
it  up  to  Singapore  and  trade  it  at  the  bazaar 
for  a  pin  for  the  hair  or  a  sunshade  with  a 
white  fringe  about  it. 

Then  there  were  the  shell-fish  and  prawns 
on  the  sea-shore  to  be  found,  greens  to  be 
sought  out  in  the  jungle,  and  the  padi,  or 
rice,  to  be  weeded.  She  must  keep  a  plen- 
tiful supply  of  betel-nut  and  lemon  leaves 
for  Mamat  and  herself,  and  one  day  there 
was  a  little  boy  to  look  after  and  make  tiny 
sarongs  for. 

So,  long  before  the  time  that  our  Ameri- 
can girls  are  out  of  school,  and  about  the 


198      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

time  they  are  putting  on  long  dresses,  Busuk 
was  a  woman.  Her  shoulders  were  bent,  her 
face  wrinkled,  her  teeth  decayed  and  falling 
out  from  the  use  of  the  syrah  leaf.  She  had 
settled  the  engagement  of  her  oldest  boy  to 
a  little  girl  of  two  years  in  a  neighboring 
kampong,  and  was  dusting  out  the  things  in 
the  camphor-wood  chest,  preparatory  to  the 
great  occasion. 

I  used  to  wonder,  as  I  wandered  through 
one  of  these  secluded  little  Malay  villages 
that  line  the  shores  of  the  peninsula  and 
are  scattered  over  its  interior,  if  the  little 
girl  mothers  who  were  carrying  water  and 
weaving  mats  did  not  sometimes  long  to  get 
down  on  the  warm,  white  sands  and  have  a 
regular  romp  among  themselves,  —  playing 
"  Cat-a-corner "  or  "  I  spy "  ;  for  none  of 
them  were  over  seventeen  or  eighteen ! 

Still  their  lives  are  not  unhappy.  Their 
husbands  are  kind  and  sober,  and  they  are 
never  destitute.  They  have  their  families 


Busuk  199 


about  them,  and  hear  laughter  and  merriment 
from  one  sunny  year  to  another. 

Busuk' s  father-in-law  is  dead  now,  and  the 
last  time  I  visited  Bander  Bahru  to  shoot 
wild  pig,  Mamat  was  -punghulo^  collecting 
the  taxes  and  administering  the  laws. 

He  raised  the  back  of  his  open  palm  to 
his  forehead  with  a  quiet  dignity  when  I 
left,  after  the  day's  sport,  and  said,  "  Tabek ! 
Tuan  Consul.  Do  not  forget  Mamat's  hum- 
ble bungalow."  And  Busuk  came  down  the 
ladder  with  little  Mamat  astride  her  bare 
shoulders,  with  a  pleasant  "  Tabek !  Tuan ! 
(Good-by,  my  lord.)  May  Allah's  smile  be 
ever  with  you." 


A   Crocodile   Hunt 
Sit  tl)r  jToot  of  spount  ODpljir 


little  pleasant-faced  Malay  captain 
of  his  Highness's  three-hundred  ton 
yacht  Pante  called  softly,  close  to  my  ear, 
"Tuan  —  Tuan  Consul,  Gunong  Ladang!"  I 
sprang  to  my  feet,  rubbed  my  eyes,  and  gazed 
in  the  direction  indicated  by  the  brown  hand. 
I  saw  not  five  miles  off  the  low  jungle- 
bound  coast  of  the  peninsula,  and  above  it  a 
great  bank  of  vaporous  clouds,  pierced  by 
the  molten  rays  of  the  early  morning  sun. 
As  I  looked  around  inquiringly,  the  captain, 
bowing,  said  :  "  Tuan,"  and  I  raised  my  eyes. 
Again  I  saw  the  lofty  mountain  peak  sur- 
mounting the  cushion  of  clouds,  standing 
out  bold  and  clear  against  the  almost  fierce 
azure  of  the  Malayan  sky. 


A   Crocodile   Hunt 


201 


"  Mount  Ophir ! "  burst  from  my  lips. 
The  captain  smiled  and  went  forward  to 
listen  to  the  linesman's  "  two  fathoms,  sir, 
two  and  one  half  fathoms,  sir,  two  fathoms, 
sir " ;  for  we  were  crossing  the  shallow  bar 
that  protects  the  mouth  of  the  great  river 
Maur  from  the  ocean. 

The  tide  was  running  out  like  a  mill-race. 
The  Pante  was  backing  from  side  to  side, 
and  then  pushing  carefully  ahead,  trying  to 
get  into  the  deep  water  beyond,  before  low 
tide. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  soft,  grating  sound 
and  the  captain  came  to  me  and  touched  his 
hat. 

"We  are  on  the  bar,  sir.  Will  you  send 
a  despatch  by  the  steam-cutter  to  Prince 
Suliman,  asking  for  the  launch  ?  We  cannot 
get  off  until  the  night  tide." 

The  Pante  had  so  swung  around  that  we 
could  plainly  see  the  big  red  istana^  or  palace, 
of  Prince  Suliman  close  to  the  sandy  shore. 


2O2       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

surrounded  by  a  grove  of  graceful  palms. 
With  the  aid  of  our  glasses  the  white  and 
red  blur  farther  up  the  river  resolved  itself 
into  the  streets  and  quays  of  the  little  city 
of  Bander  Maharani,  the  capital  of  the  prov- 
ince of  Maur  in  dominions  of  his  Highness 
Abubaker,  Sultan  of  Johore.  Above  and 
overshadowing  all  both  in  beauty  and  his- 
torical interest  was  the  famous  old  mountain 
where  King  Solomon  sent  his  diminutive 
ships  for  "gold,  silver,  peacocks,  and  apes." 
By  the  time  the  ladies  were  astir,  the  mists 
had  vanished  and  Gunong  Ladang,  or  as  it  is 
styled  in  Holy  Writ  Mount  Ophir,  presented 
to  our  admiring  gaze  its  massive  outlines,  set 
in  a  frame  of  green  and  blue.  The  dense 
jungle  crept  halfway  up  its  sides  and  at  the 
point  where  the  cloud  stratum  had  rested  but 
an  hour  before,  it  merged  into  a  tangled  net- 
work of  vines  and  shrubs  which  in  their  turn 
gave  place  to  the  black,  red  rock  that  shone 
like  burnished  brass. 


A  Crocodile  Hunt  203 

If  our  minds  wandered  away  from  visions 
of  future  crocodile-shooting  to  dreams  of  the 
past  wealth  that  had  been  taken  from  the 
ancient  mines  that  honeycombed  the  base  of 
the  mountain,  it  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at. 
If  Dato  or  "Lord"  Garlands  told  us  queer 
stones  of  woods  and  masonry  that  antedated 
the  written  history  of  the  country,  stories  of 
mines  and  workings  that  were  overgrown 
with  a  jungle  that  looked  as  primeval  as  the 
mountain  itself,  he  was  to  be  excused  on  the 
plea  that  we,  waiting  on  a  sandy  bar  with 
the  metallic  glare  of  the  sea  in  our  eyes, 
were  glad  of  any  subject  to  distract  our 
thoughts. 

The  Resident's  launch  brought  out  Prince 
Mat  and  the  Chief  Justice,  both  of  whom 
spoke  English  with  an  easy  familiarity.  Both 
had  been  in  Europe  and  Prince  Mat  had 
dined  with  Queen  Victoria.  One  night  at 
table  he  related  the  incidents  of  that  dinner 
with  a  delightful  exactness  that  might  have 


2O4      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

pleased  her  Britannic  Majesty  could  she  have 
listened. 

I  waited  only  long  enough  to  see  the  ladies 
installed  in  a  suite  of  rooms  in  the  Residency, 
then  donned  a  suit  of  white  duck,  stepped, 
into  a  river  launch  in  company  with  Inchi 
Mohamed,  the  Chief  Justice,  and  steamed 
out  into  the  broad  waters  of  the  Maur. 

The  southernmost  kingdom  of  the  great 
continent  of  Asia  is  the  little  Sultanate  of 
Johore,  ruled  over  by  one  of  the  most  en- 
lightened Princes  of  the  East.  Fourteen 
miles  from  Singapore,  just  across  the  notori- 
ous old  Straits  of  Malacca,  is  his  capital  and 
the  palace  of  the  Sultan. 

We  had  been  guests  of  the  State  for  the 
past  two  weeks.  Its  ruler,  among  other  kind 
attentions  to  us,  had  suggested  a  visit  to  his 
out  province  Maur  and  a  crocodile  hunt 
along  the  banks  of  the  broad  river  that 
wound  about  the  foot  of  Mount  Ophir. 

Fifteen  hours'  steam  in  his  beautiful  yacht 


A  Crocodile  Hunt  205 

along  the  picturesque  shores  of  Johore  brought 
us  to  the  realization  of  a  long-cherished  dream, 
—  the  seeing  for  ourselves  the  mountain  whose 
exact  location  had  been  a  subject  of  conjecture 
for  so  many  centuries.  Were  I  a  scholar  and 
explorer  and  not  a  sportsman,  I  might  again 
and  more  explicitly  set  forth  facts  which  I 
consider  indubitable  proof  that  the  Mount 
Ophir  of  Asia  and  not  the  Mount  Ophir 
of  Africa  is,  as  I  have  already  claimed,  the 
Mount  Ophir  of  the  Bible.  But  here,  I 
wish  only  to  narrate  the  record  of  a  few 
pleasant  days  spent  at  its  foot. 

The  Maur  River,  at  its  mouth,  is  a  mile 
across ;  it  is  so  deep  that  one  can  run  close 
up  to  its  muddy  banks  and  peer  in  under 
the  labyrinth  of  mangrove  roots  that  stand 
like  a  rustic  scaffold  beneath  its  trunks, 
protecting  them  from  the  highest  flood-tides. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  could  pick  out 
a  crocodile  as  he  lay  sleeping  in  his  muddy 
bath,  showing  nothing  above  the  slime  except 


206      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

the  serrated  line  of  his  great  back,  which 
was  so  incrusted  that,  but  for  its  regularity, 
it  might  pass  for  the  limb  of  a  tree  or  some 
fantastically  shaped  root. 

"  There  you  are  !  "  said  the  Chief  Justice, 
pointing  at  the  bank  almost  before  we  had 
reached  the  opposite  side.  I  strained  my 
eyes  and  raised  the  hammer  of  my  "  50  x 
no"  Winchester;  for  I  was  to  have  a  shot 
at  my  first  live  crocodile. 

We  drew  nearer  and  nearer  the  shore  and 
yet  I  failed  to  see  anything  that  resembled 
an  animal  of  any  sort.  The  little  launch 
slowed  down  and  the  crew  all  pointed  toward 
the  bank.  I  cannot  now  imagine  what  I 
expected  then  to  see,  but  something  must 
have  been  in  my  mind's  eye  that  blinded 
my  bodily  sight;  for  there,  right  before  me, 
was  a  little  fellow  not  over  three  feet  long. 

He  had  just  come  up  from  the  river,  and 
his  hide  was  clean  and  almost  a  dark  birch 
color.  His  head  was  raised  and  he  was 


A  Crocodile  Hunt  207 

regarding  us  suspiciously  from  his  small 
green  eyes. 

I  put  down  my  rifle  in  disgust,  and  took 
up  my  revolver.  I  had  no  idea  of  wasting 
a  hundred  and  ten  grains  of  powder  on  a 
baby.  I  took  careful  aim  and  fired.  The 
revolver  was  a  self-cocker,  and  yet  before  I 
could  fire  again,  he  had  whirled  about  and 
was  out  of  reach.  He  was  gone  and  I  drew 
a  long  breath.  The  Malays  said  I  struck 
him.  If  I  did,  I  had  no  means  of  prov- 
ing it. 

The  only  way  to  bag  crocodiles  is  to  kill 
them  outright  or  nearly  so.  If  they  have 
strength  enough  to  crawl  into  the  river  and 
die,  they  will  come  to  the  surface  again  two 
days  later ;  but  the  chances  are  that  they  will 
get  under  a  root,  or  that  in  some  way  you 
will  lose  them.  Out  of  forty  or  fifty  big  and 
small  ones  that  we  hit  only  five  floated  down 
past  the  Residency. 

I   also    soon    found   out   that   my  hundred 


208      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

and  ten  grain  cartridges  were  none  too  large 
for  even  the  smaller  crocodiles.  As  for  those 
eighteen  and  twenty  feet  long,  it  was  neces- 
sary that  the  Chief  Justice  and  I  should  fire 
at  the  same  time  and  at  the  same  spot  in 
order  to  arrest  the  big  saurians  in  their  wild 
scramble  for  the  water. 

We  had  tried  some  half-dozen  good  shots 
at  small  fellows,  varying  from  two  to  five 
feet  in  length,  when  I  began  to  lose  interest 
in  the  sport ;  so  I  turned  to  watch  a  colony 
of  little  gray,  jungle  monkeys,  that  were 
swinging  and  chattering  and  scolding  among 
the  mangrove  trees. 

One  of  them  picked  a  long  dart-shaped 
fruit  off  the  tree  and  essayed  to  drop  it  on  the 
head  of  his  mate  below.  I  was  about  to  call 
my  companion's  attention  to  it,  when  I  heard  a 
crash  among  the  roots  near  where  the  missile 
had  fallen,  and  a  crocodile,  so  large  that  I 
distrusted  my  senses,  turned  his  great  log- 
like  head  to  one  side  and  gazed  up  at  the 


A   Crocodile  Hunt  209 

frightened  monkeys.  I  raised  my  hand,  and 
the  launch  paused  not  over  twenty  yards 
from  where  he  lay  patiently  waiting  for  one 
of  the  monkeys  to  drop  within  reach  of  his 
great  jaws. 

The  sun  had  dried  the  mud  on  his  back 
until  the  entire  surface  reminded  me  of  the 
beach  of  a  muddy  mill-pond  that  I  used  to 
frequent  as  a  boy. 

"  Boyab  besar!"  (A  royal  crocodile)  re- 
peated our  Malays  under  their  breaths. 

The  Chief  Justice  and  I  fired  at  the  same 
time,  and  the  massive  fellow  who,  but  a  mo- 
ment before,  had  looked  to  be  as  stiff  and 
clumsy  as  a  bar  of  pig  iron,  now  seemed  to 
be  made  of  india-rubber  and  steel  springs. 
I  should  not  have  been  more  surprised  had 
the  great  timboso  tree,  beside  which  he  lay, 
arisen  and  danced  a  jig.  He  seemed  to 
spring  from  the  middle  up  into  the  air  with- 
out the  aid  of  either  his  head  or  his  tail. 
Then  he  brought  his  tail  around  in  a  circle 


2io      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

and  struck  the  skeleton  roots  of  the  man- 
grove with  such  force  as  to  dislodge  a  small 
monkey  in  its  top,  which  fell  whistling  with 
fright  into  the  lower  limbs,  while  the  croco- 
dile's great  jaws,  which  seemed  to  measure 
a  third  of  his  length,  opened  and  shut 
viciously,  snapping  off  limbs  and  roots  like 
straws. 

"He  sick!"  shouted  the  Chief  Justice. 
"Fire  quick." 

I  threw  the  cartridge  from  the  magazine 
into  the  barrel,  and  raised  the  gun  to  my 
shoulder  just  as  the  huge  saurian  struck  the 
water.  My  bullet  caught  him  underneath, 
near  the  back  legs.  My  companion's  must 
have  had  more  effect,  for  the  crocodile 
stopped  as  though  stunned.  I  had  time  to 
drop  my  gun  and  snatch  up  my  revolver. 

It  was  an  easy  shot.  The  bullet  sped  true 
to  its  mark  and  entered  one  of  the  small 
fiery  eyes.  The  huge  frame  seemed  to 
quiver  as  though  a  charge  of  electricity  had 


A  Crocodile  Hunt  211 

gone  through  it  and  then  stiffened  out,  — 
dead. 

Our  Malay  boys  got  a  rope  of  tough  gam- 
ooty  fibres  around  the  great  head,  and  we 
towed  our  prize  out  into  the  stream  just  as 
the  Resident's  launch,  bearing  the  Prince  and 
the  ladies,  steamed  up  the  river  to  watch  the 
sport. 

A  crowd  of  servants  got  the  crocodile  up 
on  the  bank  near  the  palace  grounds  and 
drew  it  two  hundred  yards  to  their  quarters. 
Now  comes  the  strangest  part  of  the  story. 

My  servants  had  half  completed  the  task 
of  skinning  him,  for  I  wished  to  send  his 
hide  to  the  Smithsonian,  when  the  muezzin 
sounded  the  call  to  prayers  from  the  little 
mosque  near  by.  In  an  instant  the  devout 
Mohammedans  were  on  their  faces  and  the 
crocodile  in  his  half-skinned  state  was  left 
until  a  more  convenient  time.  At  six 
o'clock  the  next  morning  I  was  awakened 
by  a  knock  at  my  door :  — 


212       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

"  Tuan,  Tuan  Consul,  come  see  boyab 
(crocodile)." 

I  got  up,  wrapped  a  sarong  about  me, 
put  my  feet  into  a  pair  of  grass  slippers, 
and  followed  my  guide  out  of  the  palace, 
through  the  courts  to  where  the  crocodile 
had  been  the  night  before,  but  no  crocodile 
was  to  be  seen.  My  guide  grinned  and 
pointed  to  a  heavy  trail  that  looked  like  the 
track  of  a  stone-boat  drawn  by  a  yoke  of 
oxen. 

We  followed  it  for  a  hundred  yards  in  the 
direction  of  the  river,  and  came  upon  the 
crocodile,  covered  with  blood  and  mud.  His 
own  hide  hung  about  him  like  a  dress,  and 
his  one  eye  opened  and  shut  at  the  throng 
of  wondering  natives  about.  It  was  not  until 
he  had  been  put  out  of  his  misery  and  his 
hide  taken  entirely  off  that  we  felt  confident 
of  his  bona  fide  demise. 

One  day  I  had  a  real  adventure  while  out 
shooting,  which,  like  many  real  adventures, 


A  Crocodile  Hunt  213 

was  made  up  principally  of  the  things  I 
thought  and  suffered  rather  than  of  the 
things  I  did.  Hence  I  hardly  know  how 
to  write  it  out  so  that  it  will  look  like  an 
"adventure"  and  not  a  mere  mishap. 

My  companion  had  told  me  of  a  trail 
some  thirty  miles  up  the  river  that  led  into 
the  jungle  about  three  miles,  to  some  old 
gold  workings  that  date  back  beyond  the 
written  records  of  the  State.  So  one  day  we 
drew  our  little  launch  close  up  under  the 
bank  of  the  river,  and  I  sprang  ashore,  bent 
on  seeing  for  myself  the  prehistoric  remains. 
Contrary  to  the  advice  of  the  Chief  Justice, 
I  only  took  a  heavy  hunting-knife  with  me, 
and  it  was  more  for  slashing  away  thorns 
and  rattans  than  for  protection. 

It  was  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  the  dense 
jungle  was  like  a  furnace.  Before  I  had 
gone  a  mile  I  began  to  regret  my  enthu- 
siasm. I  found  the  path,  but  it  was  so 
overgrown  with  creepers,  parasites,  and  rub- 


214      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

ber-vines  that  I  had  almost  to  cut  a  new 
one.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  company  of 
a  small  English  terrier,  Lekas, —  the  Malay 
for  "make  haste,"  —  I  believe  I  should  have 
turned  back. 

However,  I  found  the  old  workings,  and 
spent  several  hours  making  calculations  as 
to  their  depth  and  course,  taking  notes  as 
to  the  country  formation,  and  assaying  some 
bits  of  refuse  quartz.  Rather  than  struggle 
back  by  the  path,  I  determined  to  follow 
the  course  of  a  stream  that  went  through 
the  mines  and  on  toward  the  coast.  So  I 
whistled  for  Lekas  and  started  on. 

For  the  first  half-hour  everything  went 
smoothly.  Then  the  stream  widened  out 
and  its  clay  bottom  gave  place  to  one  of 
mud,  which  made  the  walking  much  more 
difficult.  At  last  I  struck  the  mangrove 
belt,  which  always  warns  you  that  you  are 
approaching  the  coast. 

As    long   as    I    kept   in   the   centre  of  the 


A  Crocodile  Hunt  215 

channel,  I  was  out  of  the  way  of  the  net- 
work of  roots ;  but  now  the  channel  was  get- 
ting deeper  and  my  progress  becoming  more 
labored.  It  was  impossible  to  reach  the  bank, 
for  the  mangroves  on  either  side  had  grown 
so  thick  and  dense  as  to  be  impenetrable. 

When  I  had  perhaps  achieved  half  the  dis- 
tance, the  thought  suddenly  crossed  my  mind 
—  how  very  awkward  it  would  be  to  meet 
a  crocodile  in  such  a  place !  One  couldn't 
run,  that  was  certain,  and  as  for  fighting, 
that  would  be  a  lost  cause  from  the  first. 

Right  in  the  midst  of  these  unpleasant 
cogitations  I  heard  a  quiet  splash  in  the 
water,  not  far  behind,  that  sent  my  heart 
into  my  mouth.  In  a  moment  I  had  scram- 
bled on  to  a  mangrove  root  and  had  turned 
to  look  for  the  cause  of  my  fears. 

For  perhaps  a  minute  I  saw  nothing,  and 
was  trying  to  convince  myself  that  my 
previous  thoughts  had  made  me  fanciful, 
when,  not  many  yards  off,  I  saw  distinctly 


216      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

the  form  of  a  huge  crocodile  swimming 
rapidly  toward  me.  I  needed  no  second 
look,  but  dashed  away  over  the  roots. 

Before  I  had  gone  half  a  dozen  yards  I 
was  down  sprawling  in  the  mud.  I  got 
entangled,  and  my  terror  made  me  totally 
unable  to  act  with  any  judgment.  Despair 
nerved  me  and  I  turned  at  bay  with  my 
long  hunting-knife  in  my  hand.  How  I 
longed  for  even  my  revolver! 

Whatever  the  issue,  it  could  not  be  long 
delayed.  The  uncouth,  hideous  form,  which 
as  yet  I  had  only  seen  dimly,  was  plain 
now.  I  took  my  stand  on  one  of  the 
largest  roots,  steadied  myself  by  clasping 
another  with  my  left  hand,  and  waited. 

My  chances,  if  it  did  not  seem  a  mockery 
to  call  them  such,  were  small  indeed.  I 
might,  by  singular  good  luck,  deprive  my 
adversary  of  sight;  but  hemmed  in  as  I  was 
by  a  tangled  mass  of  roots,  I  felt  that  even 
then  I  should  be  but  little  better  off. 


A    CROCODILE    HUNT    ON    THE    MAUR 
"  I  turned  at  bay  with  my  long  hunting  knife  in  my  hand  " 


A  Crocodile  Hunt  217 

All  manner  of  thoughts  came  unbidden  to 
my  mind.  I  could  see  Inchi  Mohamed 
propped  up  on  cushions  in  the  launch  read- 
ing "A  Little  Book  of  Profitable  Tales" 
that  had  just  been  sent  me  by  its  author. 
I  started  to  smile  at  the  tale  of  The  Cly- 
copeedy.  Then  I  caught  sight  of  the  peak 
of  Mount  Ophir  through  a  notch  in  the 
jungle  and  all  sorts  of  absurd  hypotheses  in 
regard  to  its  authenticity  flashed  through  my 
mind.  All  this  takes  time  to  relate,  but 
those  who  have  stood  in  mortal  peril  will 
know  how  short  a  time  it  takes  to  think. 

From  the  moment  I  left  the  water,  but  a 
few  seconds  had  elapsed  and  the  saurian  was 
not  two  yards  from  me.  The  abject  horror 
and  hopelessness  of  that  moment  was  some- 
thing I  can  never  forget.  Suddenly  Lekas 
came  floundering  through  the  mud ;  a  sec- 
ond more,  and  he  perceived  my  enemy  when 
almost  within  reach  of  his  jaws. 

Barking    furiously,    Lekas     began    to    back 


218     Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

away.  One  breathless  moment,  and  the 
reptile  turned  to  follow  this  new  prey.  I 
sank  down  among  the  roots  regardless  of  the 
slime  and  watched  the  crocodile  crawl  delib- 
erately away,  with  the  gallant  little  dog  re- 
treating before  him,  keeping  up  a  succession 
of  angry  barks. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek, 
weak,  faint,  and  covered  from  head  to  foot 
with  mud,  I  found  the  Chief  Justice  await- 
ing me.  The  barking  of  the  dog  had 
attracted  his  attention  and  he  had  steamed 
up  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

I  had  not  strength  left  to  stroke  the  head 
of  the  brave  little  fellow  who  had  thus  twice 
done  me  a  most  welcome  service.  I  had, 
indeed,  but  just  strength  enough  to  spring  in, 
throw  myself  down  on  the  cushions,  and 
let  my  "  boys  "  pull  off  my  clothes  and  bring 
me  a  suit  of  clean  pajamas  and  cool  grass 
slippers. 


A  New  Year's  Day  in  Malaya 
some  of  it*  picturesque  Customs 


Ti  yTY  Malay  syce  came  close  up  to  the 
-*>  *  A  veranda  and  touched  his  brown  fore- 
head with  the  back  of  his  open  hand. 

"  Tuan  "  (Lord),  he  said,  "  have  got  oil 
for  harness,  two  one-half  cents  ;  black  oil 
for  cudab's  (horse)  feet,  three  cents  ;  oil,  one 
cent  one-half  for  bits  ;  oil,  seven  cents  for 
cretah  (carriage).  Fourteen  cents,  Tuan." 

I  put  my  hands  into  the  pockets  of  my 
white  duck  jacket  and  drew  out  a  roll  of  big 
Borneo  coppers. 

The  syce  counted  out  the  desired  amount, 
and  handed  back  what  was  left  through  the 
bamboo  chicks,  or  curtains,  that  reduced  the 
blinding  glare  of  the  sky  to  a  soft,  translu- 
cent gray.  I  closed  my  eyes  and  stretched 

219 


220      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

back  in  my  long  chair,  wondering  vaguely 
at  the  occasion  that  called  for  such  an  out- 
lay in  oils,  when  I  heard  once  more  the 
quiet,  insistent  "  Tuan  ! "  I  opened  my 
eyes. 

"  No  got  red,  white,  blue  ribbon  for  whip." 

"  Sudab  cbukupf"  (Stop  talking)  I  com- 
manded angrily.  The  syce  shrugged  his 
bare  shoulders  and  gave  a  hitch  to  his  cot- 
ton sarong. 

"  Tuan,  to-morrow  New  Year  Day.  Tuan, 
mem  (lady)  drive  to  Esplanade.  Governor, 
general,  all  white  tuans  and  mems  there. 
Tuan  Consul's  carriage  not  nice.  Shall  syce 
buy  ribbons  ? " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  tossing  him  the  rest 
of  the  coppers,  "  and  get  a  new  one  for 
your  arm." 

I  had  forgotten  for  the  moment  that  it 
was  the  jist  of  December.  The  syce  touched 
his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  salaamed. 

Through  the  spaces  of  the  protecting  chicks 


A   New  Year's  Day  in  Malaya      221 

I  caught  glimpses  of  my  Malay  kebun,  or 
gardener,  squatting  on  his  bare  feet,  with  his 
bare  knees  drawn  up  under  his  armpits, 
hacking  with  a  heavy  knife  at  the  short 
grass.  The  mottled  crotons,  the  yellow 
allamanda  and  pink  hibiscus  bushes,  the 
clump  of  Eucharist  lilies,  the  great  trailing 
masses  of  orchids  that  hung  among  the 
red  flowers  of  the  stately  flamboyant  tree 
by  the  green  hedge,  joined  to  make  me 
forget  the  midwinter  date  on  the  calendar. 
The  time  seemed  in  my  half-dream  July  in 
New  York  or  August  in  Washington. 

Ah  Minga,  the  "  boy "  in  flowing  panta- 
lets and  stiffly  starched  blouse,  came  silently 
along  the  wide  veranda,  with  a  cup  of  tea 
and  a  plate  of  opened  mangosteens.  I  roused 
myself,  and  the  dreams  of  sleighbells  and 
ice  on  window-panes,  that  had  been  fleeting 
through  my  mind  at  the  first  mention  of 
New  Year's  Day  by  the  syce,  vanished. 

Ah    Minga,  too,   mentioned,  as    he  placed 


222       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

the  cool,  pellucid  globes  before  me,  "  To- 
mollow  New  Year  Dlay,  Tuan  ! " 

On  Christmas  Day,  Ah  Minga  had  pre- 
sented the  mistress  with  the  gilded  counter- 
feit presentment  of  a  Joss.  The  servants, 
one  and  all,  from  Zim,  the  cookee,  to  the 
wretched  Kling  dbobie  ( wash  -  man ),  had 
brought  some  little  remembrance  of  their 
Christian  master's  great  holiday. 

In  respecting  our  customs,  they  had  taken 
occasion  to  establish  one  of  their  own.  They 
had  adopted  New  Year's  as  the  day  when 
their  masters  should  return  their  presents 
and  good  will  in  solid  cash. 

At  midnight  we  were  awakened  by  a  regu- 
lar Fourth  of  July  pandemonium.  Whistles 
from  the  factories,  salvos  from  Fort  Canning, 
bells  from  the  churches,  Chinese  tom-toms, 
Malay  horns,  rent  the  air  from  that  hour 
until  dawn  with  all  the  discords  of  the  Orient 
and  a  few  from  Europe.  By  daylight  the 
thousands  of  natives  from  all  quarters  of  the 


A  New  Year's  Day  in  Malaya     223 

peninsula  and  neighboring  islands  had  gath- 
ered along  the  broad  Ocean  Esplanade  of 
Singapore  in  front  of  the  Cricket  Club 
House,  to  take  part  in  or  watch  the  native 
sports  by  land  and  sea. 

The  inevitable  Chinaman  was  there,  the 
Kling,  the  Madrasman,  the  Sikh,  the  Arab, 
the  Jew,  the  Chitty,  or  Indian  money-lender, 
—  they  were  all  there,  many  times  multi- 
plied, unconsciously  furnishing  a  background 
of  extraordinary  variety  and  picturesqueness. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  favored  representa- 
tives of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  took  their 
place  on  the  great  veranda  of  the  Cricket 
Club,  and  gave  the  signal  that  we  would 
condescend  to  be  amused  for  ten  hours. 
Then  the  show  commenced.  There  were 
not  over  two  hundred  white  people  to  repre- 
sent law  and  civilization  amid  the  teeming 
native  population. 

In  the  centre  of  the  beautiful  esplanade  or 
playground  rose  the  heroic  statue  of  Sir 


224      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

Stamford  Raffles,  the  English  governor  who 
made  Singapore  possible.  To  my  right,  on 
the  veranda,  stood  a  modest,  gray-haired  little 
man  who  cleared  the  seas  of  piracy  and  in- 
sured Singapore's  commercial  ascendency,  Sir 
Charles  Brooke,  Rajah  of  Sarawak.  A  little 
farther  on,  surrounded  by  a  brilliant  suite  of 
Malay  princes,  was  the  Sultan  of  Johore, 
whose  father  sold  the  island  of  Singapore  to 
the  British. 

The  first  of  the  sports  was  a  series  of  foot- 
races between  Malay  and  Kling  boys,  almost 
invariably  won  by  the  Malays,  who  are  the 
North  American  Indians  of  Malaysia  —  the 
old-time  kings  of  the  soil.  They  are  never, 
like  the  Chinese,  mere  beasts  of  burden,  or 
great  merchants,  nor  do  they  descend  to  petty 
trade,  like  the  Indians  or  Bengalese.  If  they 
must  work  they  become  horsemen. 

Next  came  a  jockey  race,  in  which  a  dozen 
long-limbed  Malays  took  each  a  five-year- 
old  child  astride  his  shoulders,  and  raced  for 


A  New  Year's  Day  in   Malaya     225 

seventy-five  yards.  There  were  sack-races 
and  greased-pole  climbing  and  pig-catching. 

Now  came  a  singular  contest  —  an  eating 
match.  Two  dozen  little  Malay,  Kling, 
Tamil,  and  Chinese  boys  were  seated  at  reg- 
ular intervals  about  an  open  circle  by  one 
of  the  governor's  aids.  Not  one  could  touch 
the  others  in  any  way.  Each  had  a  dry, 
hard  ship-biscuit  before  him.  A  pistol  shot 
and  two  dozen  pairs  of  little  brown  fists  went 
pit-a-pat  on  the  two  dozen  hard  biscuits,  and 
in  an  instant  the  crackers  were  broken  to 
powder. 

Then  commenced  the  difficult  task  of  forc- 
ing the  powdered  pulp  down  the  little 
throats.  Both  hands  were  called  into  full 
play  during  the  operation,  one  for  crowding 
in,  the  other  for  grinding  the  residue  and 
patting  the  stomach  and  throat.  Each  little 
competitor  would  shyly  rub  into  the  warm 
earth,  or  hide  away  in  the  folds  of  his  many- 
colored  sarong,  as  much  as  possible,  or  when 


226      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

a  rival  was  looking  the  other  way,  would  snap 
a  good-sized  piece  across  to  him. 

The  little  brown  fellow  who  won  the  fifty- 
cent  piece  by  finishing  his  biscuit  first  simply 
put  into  his  mouth  a  certain  quantity  of  the 
crushed  biscuit,  and  with  little  or  no  masti- 
cation pushed  the  whole  mass  down  his 
throat  by  sheer  force. 

The  minute  the  contest  was  decided,  all 
the  participants,  and  many  other  boys, 
rushed  to  a  great  tub  of  molasses  to  duck 
for  half-dollars.  One  after  another  their 
heads  would  disappear  into  the  sticky,  blind- 
ing mass,  as  they  fished  with  their  teeth  for 
the  shining  prizes  at  the  bottom. 

Successful  or  otherwise,  after  their  powers 
were  exhausted  they  would  suddenly  pull  out 
their  heads,  reeking  with  the  molasses,  and 
make  for  the  ocean,  unmindful  of  the  crowds 
of  natives  in  holiday  attire  who  blocked  their 
way. 

Then  came  a  jinrikisha  race,  with  Chinese 


A  New  Year's  Day  in  Malaya     227 

coolies  pulling  Malay  passengers  around  a 
half-mile  course.  Letting  go  the  handles  of 
their  wagons  as  they  crossed  the  line,  the 
coolies  threw  their  unfortunate  passengers 
over  backward. 

Tugs  of  war,  wrestling  matches,  and  box- 
ing bouts  on  the  turf  finished  the  land 
sports,  and  we  all  adjourned  to  the  yachts 
to  witness  those  of  the  sea.  There  were 
races  between  men-of-war  cutters,  European 
yachts,  rowing  shells,  Chinese  sampans,  and 
Malay  colebs  with  great,  dart-like  sails,  so 
wide-spreading  that  ropes  were  attached  to 
the  top  of  the  masts,  and  a  dozen  naked 
natives  hung  far  out  over  the  side  of  the 
slender  boat  to  keep  it  from  blowing  over. 
In  making  the  circle  of  the  harbor  they 
would  spring  from  side  to  side  of  the  boat, 
sometimes  lost  to  our  view  in  the  spray, 
often  missing  their  footholds,  and  dragging 
through  the  tepid  water. 

Between    times,    while   watching    the    races, 


228      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

we  amused  ourselves  throwing  coppers  to  a 
fleet  of  native  boys  in  small  dugouts  beneath 
our  bows.  Every  time  a  penny  dropped 
into  the  water,  a  dozen  little  bronze  forms 
would  flash  in  the  sunlight,  and  nine  times 
out  of  ten  the  coin  never  reached  the 
bottom. 

Last  of  all  came  the  trooping  of  the  Eng- 
lish colors  on  the  magnificent  esplanade, 
within  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral ;  the 
march  past  of  the  sturdy  British  artillery  and 
engineers,  with  their  native  allies,  the  Sikhs 
and  Sepoys ;  then  the  feu-de-joie^  and  New 
Year's  was  officially  recognized  by  the  guns 
of  the  fort. 

That  night  we  danced  at  Government 
House, — we  exiles  of  the  Temperate  Zone, 
—  keeping  up  to  the  last  the  fiction  that 
New  Year's  Day  under  a  tropic  sky  and 
within  sound  of  the  tiger's  wail  was  really 
January  first.  But  every  remembrance  and 
association  was,  in  our  homesick  thoughts, 


A  New  Year's  Day  in  Malaya     229 

grouped  about   an  open    arch    fire,   with    the 

sharp,   crisp    creak  of  sleigh-runners   outside, 

in    a   frozen    land  fourteen    thousand    miles 
away. 


In    the    Burst   of  the    Southwest 
Monsoon 

#  tEale  of  Ctjangty  315ungaloto 

WE  had  been  out  all  day  from  Singa- 
pore on  a  wild-pig  hunt.  There 
were  eight  of  us,  including  three  young  offi- 
cers of  the  Royal  Artillery,  besides  some- 
where between  seventy  and  a  hundred  native 
beaters.  The  day  had  been  unusually  hot, 
even  for  a  country  whose  regular  record  on 
the  thermometer  reads  150  degrees  in  the 
sun. 

We  had  tramped  and  shot  through  jun- 
gle and  lallang  grass,  until,  when  night  came 
on,  I  was  too  tired  to  make  the  fourteen 
miles  back  across  the  island,  and  so  decided 
to  push  on  a  mile  farther  to  a  government 
"rest  bungalow."  I  said  good-by  to  my 

230 


In  the  Southwest  Monsoon       231 

companions  and  the  game,  and  accompanied 
only  by  a  Hindu  guide,  struck  out  across 
some  ploughed  lands  for  the  jungle  road 
that  led  to  and  ended  at  Changhi. 

Changhi  was  one  of  three  rest  bungalows, 
or  summer  resorts,  if  one  can  be  permitted 
to  mention  summer  in  this  land  of  perpetual 
summer.  They  were  owned  and  kept  open 
by  the  Singapore  Government  for  the  con- 
venience of  travellers,  and  as  places  to  which 
its  own  officials  can  flee  from  the  cares  of 
office  and  the  demands  of  society.  I  had 
stopped  at  Changhi  Bungalow  once  for  some 
weeks  when  my  wife  and  a  party  of  friends 
and  all  our  servants  were  with  me.  It  was 
lonely  even  then,  with  the  black  impene- 
trable jungle  crowding  down  on  three  sides, 
and  a  strip  of  the  blinding,  dazzling  waters 
of  the  uncanny  old  Straits  of  Malacca  in 
front. 

There  were  tigers  and  snakes  in  the  jun- 
gle, and  crocodiles  and  sharks  in  the  Straits, 


232       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

and  lizards  and  other  things  in  the  bunga- 
low. I  thought  of  all  this  in  a  disjointed 
kind  of  a  way,  and  half  wished  that  I  had 
stayed  with  my  party.  Then  I  noticed  un- 
easily that  some  thick  oily-looking  clouds 
were  blotting  out  the  yellow  haze  left  by 
the  sun  over  on  the  Johore  side.  A  few 
big  hot  drops  of  rain  splashed  down  into 
my  face,  as  I  climbed  wearily  up  the  dozen 
cement  steps  of  the  house. 

The  bamboo  chicks  were  all  down,  and 
the  shutter-doors  securely  locked  from  the 
inside,  but  there  was  a  long  rattan  chair 
within  reach,  and  I  dropped  into  it  with  a 
sigh  of  satisfaction,  while  my  guide  went 
out  toward  the  servant-quarters  to  arouse 
the  Malay  mandor,  or  head  gardener,  whom 
H.  B.  M.'s  Government  trusted  with  this 
portion  of  her  East  Indian  possessions. 

As  might  have  been  expected,  that  high 
functionary  was  not  to  be  found,  and  I  was 
forced  to  content  myself,  while  my  guide 


In  the  Southwest  Monsoon        233 

went  on  to  a  neighboring  native  police  sta- 
tion to  make  inquiries.  I  unbuttoned  my 
stiff  kaki  shooting-jacket,  lit  a  manila,  which 
my  mouth  was  too  dry  to  smoke,  and  gazed 
up  at  the  ceiling  in  silence. 

It  was  stiflingly  hot.  Even  the  cicadas 
in  the  great  jungle  tree,  that  towered  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  above  the  house,  were 
quiet.  Every  breath  I  took  seemed  to 
scorch  me,  and  the  balls  of  my  eyes  ached. 
The  sky  had  changed  to  a  dull  cartridge 
color. 

A  breeze  came  across  the  hot,  glaring  sur- 
face of  the  Straits,  and  stirred  the  tops  of  a 
little  clump  of  palms,  and  died  away.  It 
brought  with  it  the  smell  of  rain. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  dead  stillness, 
—  not  even  a  lizard  clucked  on  the  wall 
back  of  me ;  then  all  at  once  the  thermome- 
ter dropped  down  two  or  three  degrees,  and 
a  tearing  wind  struck  the  bamboo  curtains 
and  stretched  them  out  straight;  the  tops  of 


234      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

the  massive  jungle  trees  bent  and  creaked ; 
there  was  a  blinding  flash  and  a  roar  of 
thunder,  and  all  distance  was  lost  in  dark- 
ness and  rain.  It  was  one  of  the  quick, 
fierce  bursts  of  the  southwest  monsoon. 

I  did  not  move,  although  wet  to  the 
skin. 

Presently  I  could  make  out  three  blurred 
figures  fighting  their  way  slowly  against  the 
storm  across  the  compound.  One  was  the 
guide ;  the  second  was  the  mandory  naked  save 
for  a  cotton  sarong  around  his  waist;  the 
third  was  a  stranger. 

The  trio  came  up  on  the  veranda  —  the 
stranger  hanging  behind,  with  an  apologetic 
droop  of  his  head.  He  was  a  white  man, 
in  a  suit  of  dirty,  ragged  linen.  It  took 
but  one  look  to  place  him.  I  had  seen 
hundreds  of  them  "  on  the  beach "  in  Singa- 
pore,— there  could  be  no  mistake.  "Loafer'* 
was  written  all  over  him  —  from  his  ragged, 
matted  hair  to  the  fringe  on  the  bottom  of 


In  the  Southwest  Monsoon       235 

his  trousers.  He  held  a  broken  cork  hel- 
met, that  had  not  seen  pipe-clay  for  many 
a  month,  in  his  grimy  hands,  and  scraped 
one  foot  and  ducked  his  dripping  head,  as 
I  turned  toward  him  with  a  gruff, — 

"  Well  ? " 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  harsh, 
rasping  voice,  "  but  I  heard  that  the  Ameri- 
can Consul  was  here.  I  am  an  American." 

He  looked  up  with  a  watery  leer  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Go  on,"  I  said,  without  offering  to  take 
the  hand  of  my  fellow-countryman. 

He  let  his  arm  fall  to  his  side. 

"  I  ain't  got  any  passport ;  that  went  with 
the  rest,  and  I  never  had  the  heart  to  ask 
for  another." 

He  gave  a  bad  imitation  of  a  sob. 

"  Never  mind  the  side  play,"  I  commented, 
as  he  began  to  fumble  in  the  bottomless 
pocket  of  his  coat.  "  I  will  supply  all  that 
as  you  go  along.  What  is  it  you  want  ? " 


236      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

He  withdrew  his  hand  and  wiped  his  eyes 
with  his  sleeve. 

"  Come  in  out  of  the  rain  and  you  won't 
need  to  do  that/'  I  said,  amused  at  this 
show  of  feeling. 

"  I  thought  as  how  you  might  give  a 
countryman  a  lift,"  he  whined. 

I  smiled  and  stepped  to  the  door. 

"  Boy,  bring  the  gentleman  a  whiskey  and 
soda." 

The  "  boy "  brought  the  liquor,  while  I 
commenced  to  unstrap  and  dry  my  Win- 
chester. 

My  fellow-countryman  did  not  move,  but 
stood  nervously  tottering  from  one  leg  to 
the  other,  as  I  went  on  with  my  task.  He 
coughed  once  or  twice  to  attract  my  attention. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  I  meant  work  — 
good,  honest  work.  Work  was  what  I 
wanted,  to  earn  this  very  glass  of  whiskey 
for  my  little  gal.  She's  sick,  sir,  sick  —  sick 
in  a  hut  at  the  station." 


In  the  Southwest  Monsoon       237 

"Your  little  what?"  I  asked  in  amazement. 

"  My  little  gal,  sir.  She's  all  that's  left 
me.  If  you'll  trust  me  with  the  glass,  I'll 
take  it  to  her.  Can't  give  you  no  security, 
I'm  afraid,  only  the  word  of  a  broken-down 
old  father,  who  has  got  a  little  gal  what  he 
loves  better  than  life  !  " 

My  long  experience  with  tramps  and 
beach-combers  was  at  fault.  No  words  can 
convey  an  idea  of  the  pathos  and  humility 
he  threw  into  his  tone  and  actions.  The 
yearning  of  the  voice,  the  almost  divine  air 
of  self-abnegation,  the  subdued  flash  of  pride 
here  and  there  that  suggested  better  days, 
the  hopeless  droop  of  the  arms,  and  the 
irresolute  tremble  of  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  would  have  appealed  to  the  heart 
of  a  heathen  idol.  That  one  of  his  caste 
should  refuse  a  glass  of  "  Usher's  Best," 
and  be  willing  to  brave  the  burst  of  a 
southwest  monsoon  to  take  it  to  any  one  — 
child,  mother,  or  wife  —  was  incredible. 


238       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

"Drink  it,"  I  said  roughly.  "You  will 
need  it  before  you  get  to  the  station.  Boy, 
bring  me  my  waterproof  and  an  umbrella. 
Now  out  you  go.  We'll  see  whether  this 
( little  gal '  is  male  or  female,  —  seven  or 
seventy." 

The  loafer  snatched  up  his  helmet  with 
an  avidity  that  admitted  of  no  question  as 
to  his  earnestness. 

We  made  a  wild  rush  down  across  the 
oozing  compound,  through  a  little  strip  of 
dripping  jungle,  over  a  swaying  foot-bridge 
that  spanned  the  muddy  Sonji  Changhi,  and 
along  the  sandy  floor  of  a  cocoanut  grove. 
On  the  outskirts  of  a  station  we  came  upon 
a  deserted  bungalow,  that  was  trembling  in 
the  storm  on  its  rotten  supports. 

We  went  up  its  rickety  ladder  and  across 
its  open  bamboo  floor,  to  the  darkest  corner, 
where,  on  an  old  mat  under  the  only  dry 
spot  in  the  hut,  lay  a  bundle  of  rags. 

My  companion   dropped    down  among  the 


In  the  Southwest  Monsoon       239 

decayed  stumps  of  pineapples  and  cocoanut 
refuse,  and  commenced  to  croon  in  a  hoarse 
voice,  "  Daddy  come,  —  Daddy  come,  —  poor 
dearie,"  and  made  a  motion  as  though  to 
put  the  bottle  to  a  small,  dirty  white 
face  that  I  could  just  make  out  among  the 
rags. 

I  pushed  him  aside  and  gathered  the  un- 
conscious little  burden  up  into  my  arms. 
There  was  no  time  for  sentiment.  Every 
minute  I  expected  the  miserable  old  shelter 
would  go  over. 

We  made  our  way  as  best  we  could  back 
through  the  darkness  and  driving  blasts  of 
rain.  The  loafer  followed  with  a  long  series 
of  "  God  bless  you's."  He  essayed  once  or 
twice  to  hold  the  umbrella  over  his  "  little 
gal's  "  head,  but  each  time  the  wind  turned 
it  inside  out,  and  he  gave  it  up  with  an  air 
of  feeble  inconsequence  that  characterized  all 
his  movements. 

I  put  my  burden  down  on  a  couch  in  the 


240      Tales  of  the   Malayan  Coast 

dining  room,  and  chafed  her  hands  and  feet, 
while  the  boy  brought  a  beer  bottle  filled 
with  hot  water. 

It  was  a  sweet  little  face,  pinched  and 
drawn,  with  big  hazel  eyes,  that  looked  up 
into  mine  as  my  efforts  sent  the  blood 
coursing  through  her  veins.  She  was  be- 
tween five  and  six  years  old.  A  mass  of 
dark  brown  hair,  unkempt  and  matted,  fell 
about  her  face  and  shoulders. 

I  wrapped  a  rug  about  her.  She  was 
asleep  almost  before  I  had  finished. 

A  little  later  I  roused  her,  and  she  nestled 
her  damp  little  head  against  my  shoulder  as 
I  gave  her  some  soup;  but  her  eyelids  were 
heavy,  and  it  seemed  almost  cruel  to  keep 
her  awake,  even  for  the  food  she  so  badly 
needed.  The  father  had  shuffled  about  un- 
easily during"  my  motherly  attentions,  and 
seemed  relieved  when  I  was  through. 

While  the  boy  brought  a  steaming  hot 
curry  and  a  goodly  supply  of  whiskey  and 


In  the  Southwest  Monsoon       241 

soda,  I  turned  the  self-confessed  father  of 
the  big  hazel  eyes  into  the  bath-room. 

With  the  grime  and  dirt  off  his  face  he 
was  pale  and  haggard.  There  were  big  blue 
marks  under  his  shifting  gray  eyes  and  his 
hair  hung  ragged  and  singed  about  his  ears. 

He  had  discarded  his  dirty  linen  for  a 
blue-flannel  bathing-suit  that  some  former 
high  official  of  H.  B.  M.  service  had  left 
behind.  There  were  traces  of  starvation  or 
dissipation  in  every  movement.  His  hand 
trembled  as  he  conveyed  the  hot  soup  to 
his  blue  lips. 

Gradually  the  color  came  back  to  his 
sunken  cheeks,  and  by  the  time  he  had  laid 
in  the  second  plate  of  curry  and  drank  two 
whiskey  and  sodas  he  looked  comparatively 
sleek  and  respectable.  Even  his  anxiety  for 
the  little  sleeper  seemed  to  fade  out  of  his 
weak  face. 

I  had  been  watching  him  narrowly  during 
the  meal.  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind 


242       Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

whether  he  was  a  clever  actor  or  only  an 
unfortunate;  he  might  be  the  latter,  and  still 
be  what  I  was  certain  of,  —  a  scamp. 

The  wind  whistled  and  roared  about  the 
great  verandas  and  into  the  glassless  windows 
with  all  the  vehemence  of  a  New  England 
snowstorm.  It  caught  our  well-protected 
punkab-lstmps,  and  turned  their  broad  flames 
into  spiral  columns  of  smoke.  Ever  and 
again  a  flash  of  lightning  flared  in  our  eyes, 
and  revealed  the  water  of  the  narrow  straits 
lashed  into  a  white  fury. 

I  should  have  been  thankful  for  the  com- 
pany of  even  a  dog  on  such  a  night,  and  think 
the  loafer  felt  it,  for  I  could  see  that  he  was 
more  at  ease  with  every  crash  of  thunder.  I 
tiptoed  over  to  the  "  little  gal,"  and  noted  her 
soft,  regular  breathing  and  healthful  sleep, 
undisturbed  by  the  fierce  storm  outside. 

I  lit  a  manila,  and  handed  one  to  my  com- 
panion. We  puffed  a  moment  in  silence, 
while  the  boy  replenished  our  glasses. 


In  the  Southwest   Monsoon       243 

"  Now,"  I  said,  tipping  my  chair  back 
against  the  wall,  "  tell  me  your  story." 

My  guest's  face  at  once  assumed  the  ex- 
pression of  the  professional  loafer.  My 
faith  in  him  began  to  wane. 

"  I  am  an  American,"  he  began  glibly 
enough  under  the  combined  effects  of  the 
whiskey  and  dinner,  "  an  old  soldier.  I 
fought  with  Grant  in  the  Wilderness,  and — " 

"  Of  course,"  I  interrupted,  "  and  with  Sher- 
man in  Georgia.  I  have  heard  it  all  by  a 
hundred  better  talkers  than  you.  Suppose 
you  skip  it." 

I  did  not  look  up,  but  I  was  perfectly 
familiar  with  the  expression  of  injured  inno- 
cence that  was  mantling  his  face. 

He  began  again  in  a  few  minutes,  but  his 
voice  had  lost  some  of  its  engaging  frankness. 

"  I  am  the  son  of  a  kind  and  indulgent 
mother, —  God  bless  her.  My  father  died 
before  I  knew  him  — " 

I    moved  uneasily  in  my  chair 


244       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

He  hurried  on  :  — 

cc  I  fell  in  bad  ways  in  spite  of  her  saintly 
love,  and  ran  away  to  sea." 

"  Look  here,  my  friend,"  I  said,  "  I  am 
sorry  to  spoil  your  little  tale,  but  it  is  an 
old  one.  Can't  you  give  me  something 
new?  Now  try  again." 

He  looked  at  me  unsteadily  under  his 
thin  eyebrows,  shuffled  restlessly  in  his  seat, 
and  said  with  something  like  a  sob  in  his 
voice :  — 

"  Well,  sir,  I  will.  You  have  been  kind  to 
me  and  taken  my  little  gal  in ;  you  saved  her 
life,  and,  for  a  change,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth." 

He  drew  himself  up  a  little  too  osten- 
tatiously, threw  his  head  back,  and  said 
proudly :  — 

"  I  am  a  gentleman  born." 

"  Good,"  I  laughed.  "  Now  you  are  on 
the  right  track,  and  besides  you  look  it." 

"  Ah !  you  may  sneer,"  he  retorted,  "  but 
I  tell  you  the  truth." 


In  the  Southwest  Monsoon       245 

His  face  flushed  and  his  lip  quivered. 
He  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table. 

"  I  tell  you  my  father,  —  ah !  but  never 
mind  my  father."  His  voice  failed  him. 

"  Certainly,"  I  replied.  "  Only  get  on  with 
your  story." 

"  I  came  out  to  India  from  Boston  as  a 
young  man,"  he  continued,  "  either  in  '66 
or  '68,  I  forget  which." 

"Try  '67,"  I  suggested. 

"  It  was  not  '67,"  he  exclaimed  angrily, 
"it  was  either  '66  or  '68." 

"  Or  some  other  date.  However,  that's 
but  a  detail.  Proceed." 

"  Sir,  you  can  make  sport  of  me,  but 
what  I  am  telling  you  is  God's  truth.  May 
I  be  struck  dead  if  one  lie  passes  my  lips. 
I  came  out  to  plant  coffee;  I  thought,  like 
many  others,  that  I  had  only  to  cut  down 
the  jungle  and  put  in  coffee  plants,  and  make 
my  everlasting  fortune." 

"  And  didn't   you  ? "   I   asked,  glancing  at 


246       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

his  dilapidated  old  helmet  that  hung  over  the 
corner  of  the  sideboard. 

"  Look  at  me ! "  he  burst  forth,  springing 
upon  his  feet,  his  breast  heaving  under  his 
blue  pajamas. 

"  Pardon  the  question,"  I  answered.  "  Go 
on,  you  are  doing  bravely." 

He  sank  back  into  his  chair  with  a  com- 
mendable air  of  dignity. 

"  I  had  a  little  money  of  my  own,"  he 
continued,  "and  opened  up  an  estate.  It 
promised  well,  but  I  soon  came  to  the  end 
of  my  small  capital.  I  thought  I  could  go 
to  Calcutta  and  Bombay  and  Simla,  and  cul- 
tivate my  mind  by  travel  and  society,  while 
the  bushes  were  growing.  Well  it  ended  in 
the  same  old  way.  I  got  into  the  chit  ties' 
hands  —  they  are  worse  than  Jews  —  at  two 
per  cent  a  month  on  a  mortgage  on  my  estate. 
Then  I  went  back  to  it  with  a  determination 
to  pay  up  my  debt,  make  my  estate  a  suc- 
cess, and  after  that  to  see  the  world.  I 


In  the  Southwest   Monsoon       247 

worked,  sir,  like  a  nigger,  and  for  a  time  was 
able  to  meet  my  naked  creditor,  from  month 
to  month,  hoping  all  the  time  against  hope 
for  a  bumper  crop." 

"  I  understand,"  I  said.  "  Your  bumper 
crop  did  not  come,  and  your  chitty  did. 
Where  does  she  come  in  ? "  I  nodded  in 
the  direction  of  the  little  sleeper. 

He  glanced  uneasily  in  the  same  direction, 
and  a  tear  gathered  in  his  eye. 

"  I  married  on  credit,  sir,  the  daughter  of 
an  English  army  officer.  It  was  infernal. 
But,  sir,  you  would  have  done  likewise.  Live 
under  the  burning  sun  of  India  for  four  years, 
struggle  against  impossibilities  and  hope  against 
hope,  and  then  have  a  pair  of  great  hazel  eyes 
look  lovingly  into  yours  and  a  pair  of  red 
lips  turned  up  to  yours,  —  and  tell  me  if  you 
would  not  have  closed  your  eyes  to  the 
future,  and  accepted  this  precious  gift  as 
though  it  were  sent  from  above  ? " 

The    pale,    shrunken    face    of    the    speaker 


248      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

glowed,  and  his  faded  eyes  lit  up  with  the 
light  of  love. 

"  We  were  happy  for  a  time,  and  the  little  gal 
was  born,  but  the  bumper  crop  did  not  come. 
Then,  sir,  I  sold  farm  tools  and  my  horse, 
and  sent  the  wife  to  a  hill  station  for  her 
health.  I  kept  the  little  gal.  I  stayed  to 
work,  as  none  of  my  natives  ever  worked. 
It  was  a  gay  station  to  which  she  went.  You 
know  the  rest,  —  she  never  came  back.  That 
ended  the  struggle.  I  would  have  shot  my- 
self but  for  the  little  one.  I  took  her  and 
we  wandered  here  and  there,  doing  odd  jobs 
for  a  few  months  at  a  time.  I  drifted  down 
to  Singapore,  hoping  to  better  myself,  but, 
sir,  I  am  about  used  up.  It's  hard  — 
hard." 

He  buried  his  head  in  his  long,  thin  fin- 
gers, and  sat  perfectly  still. 

There  was  a  sound  outside  above  the  roar 
of  the  wind  and  the  rain.  At  first  faint  and 
intermittent,  it  grew  louder,  and  continuous, 


In  the  Southwest  Monsoon        249 

and  came  close.  There  was  no  mistaking  it, 
—  the  march  of  booted  men. 

"What's  that?"  asked  my  companion,  with 
a  start. 

"  Tommy  Atkins,"  I  replied,  "  the  clang 
of  the  ammunition  boot  as  big  as  life." 

His  face  grew  ashy  white,  and  he  looked 
furtively  around  the  room. 

"  What's  the  matter  ? "  I  exclaimed,  but 
as  I  asked,  I  knew. 

I  opened  the  bath-room  door  and  shoved 
him  in. 

"Go  in  there,"  I  said,  "and  compose  some 
more  fairy  tales." 

He  was  scarcely  out  of  sight  when  the 
front  door  was  thrown  open,  and  a  corporal's 
guard,  wet  yet  happy,  marched  into  the  room. 

The  corporal  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
door,  and  gave  himself  mental  words  of  com- 
mand,—  "Eyes  left,  eyes  right,"  —  then,  as 
a  last  resource,  —  "eyes  under  the  table." 
He  had  not  noticed  the  little  bundle  in  the 


250      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

dark  corner.  He  drew  himself  up  and  gave 
the  military  salute. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  we  are  out  for  a 
deserter  from  the  5  8th,  —  Bill  Hulish, — 
we  'ave  tracked  him  'ere,  and  with  the  com- 
pliments of  the  commanding  hofficer,  we'll 
search  the  'ouse." 

"  Search  away,"  I  answered,  as  I  heard  the 
outside  bath-room  door  open  and  close  softly. 

They  returned  empty-handed,  but  not 
greatly  disappointed. 

"Wet  night,  corporal,"   I  ventured. 

"  One  of  the  worst  as  ever  I  knew,  sir," 
he  replied,  eying  the  whiskey  bottle  and  the 
two  half-drained  glasses. 

"  'Ad  a  long  march,  sir,  fourteen  miles." 

I  pushed  the  bottle  toward  him,  and  with 
a  deprecatory  salute  he  turned  out  a  stiff 
drink. 

"'Ere's  to  yer  'ealth,  sir,  an'  may  ye  always 
'ave  an  extra  glass  ready  for  a  visitor." 

I  smiled,  and  motioned  for  his  men  to  do 


In  the  Southwest  Monsoon       251 

likewise,  and  then,  because  he  was  a  man  of 
sweet  composure  and  had  not  asked  any  ques- 
tions as  to  the  extra  glass  and  chair,  told  him 
that  his  bird  had  flown. 

"  Bad  'cess  to  him,  sir,  'e's  led  us  a  pretty 
chase  for  these  last  four  weeks.  If  'e  was 
only  a  deserter  I  wouldn't  mind,  but  Vs 
a  kidnapper.  Leastways,  Tommy  Loud's 
young'n  turned  up  missin'  the  day  he 
skipped,  an'  we  ain't  seen  nothin'  of  'er 


since." 


"  Is  this  she  ? "  I  asked,  leading  him  to 
the  cot. 

Hardly  looking  at  the  child,  he  raised  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"  God  be  praised,  sir,"  he  said  with  a 
show  of  feeling.  "  We  'ave  got  her  back.  I 
think  her  mother  would  'ave  died  if  we  'ad 
come  back  again  without  her,  —  but,  O  my 
little  darlin',  you  look  cruel  bad.  Drugged, 
sir,  that's  what  she  is.  Drugged  to  keep  'er 
quiet  and  save  food.  The  blag'ard  !  " 


252       Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

"  But  what  did  he  take  her  for  ? "   I  asked. 

"  Bless  you,  sir/'  replied  the  corporal,  "  she 
was  his  stock  in  trade.  I  reckon  she's  drawn 
many  dibs  out  of  other  people's  pockets  that 
would  'ave  been  nestlin'  there  to-day  if  it 
'adn't  'a'  bin  for  'er." 

Then  a  broad  grin  broke  over  his  ruddy 
features,  and  he  looked  at  me  quizzically. 

"  But  'e  was  a  great  play  hactor,  sir." 

"And  a  poet,"   I   added  enthusiastically. 

"'E  could  beat  Kipling  romancing  sir." 
He  checked  himself,  as  though  ashamed  of 
awarding  such  meed  of  praise  to  his  ex-col- 
league. 

"  But  we  must  be  goin' ;  orders  strict. 
With  your  permission,  sir,  I  will  leave  her 
with  a  guard  of  one  man  for  to-night,  and 
send  the  ambulance  for  her  in  the  morning." 

He  drew  up  his  little  file,  saluted,  and 
marched  out  into  the  rain  and  wind,  with  all 
the  cheerfulness  of  a  duck. 

I  could  hear  them  singing  as  they  crossed 


In  the  Southwest  Monsoon       253 

the    compound   and    struck    into    the    jungle 
road :  — 

"  Oh,  it's  Tommy  this,  an*   Tommy  that,  an*    '  Tommy, 

go  away '  ; 
But  it's    'Thank    you,    Mister  Atkins,'   when   the   band 

begins  to  play, 
The  band  begins  to  —  " 

A  peal  of  thunder  that  shook  the  bungalow 
from  its  attap  roof  to  its  nebong  pillars 
drowned  the  melody  and  drove  me  inside. 


A   Pig   Hunt 
3f|n  rtje  spalapn  jungle 

F  •  ^HE  thermometer  stood  at  155  degrees  in 

-•-     the  sun.     The  dry  lallang  grass  crackled 

and  glowed  and  returned  long  irregular  waves 

of  heat  to  the  quivering  metallic  dome  above. 

The  sensitive  mimosa,  at  our  feet,  had 
long  since  surrendered  to  the  fierce  wooing 
of  the  sun-god,  submissively  folding  its  leaves 
and  then  its  branches  and  putting  aside  its 
morning  dress  of  green  for  one  more  in 
keeping  with  the  color  of  the  earth  and  sky. 
Even  the  clamorous  cicada  had  hushed  its 
insistent  whir. 

We  were  dressed  in  brown  kaki  suits. 
Wide-spreading  cork  helmets  were  filled  with 
the  stiff  varnished  leaves  of  the  mango,  and 
wet  handkerchiefs  were  draped  from  under- 


A  Pig  Hunt  255 


neath  their  rims ;  yet,  after  an  hour  of  ex- 
posure, our  flesh  ached  —  it  was  tender  to 
the  touch.  The  barrel  of  my  Express  scorched 
my  hand,  and  I  wrapped  my  camerabuna 
about  it.  But  then  it  was  no  hotter  than 
any  other  day.  In  fact,  we  never  gave  a 
thought  to  the  weather. 

We  were  formed  in  a  line,  perhaps  two 
miles  in  length,  in  a  deserted  pepper  planta- 
tion, fronting  a  jungle  of  timboso  trees  and 
rubber-vines.  I  squatted  patiently  under  the 
checkered  shade  of  a  neglected  coffee  tree 
and  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  seemingly 
impenetrable  walls  of  the  jungle.  A  hundred 
feet  to  the  right  and  the  left,  under  like 
protection,  were  two  of  my  companions,  deter- 
mined like  myself  to  be  successful  in  three 
points,  —  to  have  the  first  shot  at  the  pigs, 
to  avoid  getting  shot,  or  shooting  a  neighbor. 
But  our  minds  rose  above  mental  cautions 
with  the  first  faint  halloos  of  the  Hindu 
shikaris  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  jungle. 


256       Tales  of  the   Malayan   Coast 

In  another  moment  the  babel  gave  place  to 
a  confusion  of  shrieks,  howls,  yells,  laughs, 
barking  of  dogs,  beating  of  tins,  blowing  of 
horns,  explosions  of  crackers,  and  a  din  that 
represents  all  that  is  wild  and  untamable  in 
three  nations.  It  is  a  weird,  almost  appall- 
ing prologue.  Those  laughs  !  —  they  are  a 
study  —  they  fairly  chill  the  blood  —  they 
would  make  the  fortune  of  a  comic  actor  — 
so  intense,  thrilling,  surprising,  and  seemingly 
filled  with  a  ghoulish  glee.  Over  and  over 
they  would  break  out  clear  and  distinct  above 
the  tintamarre.  I  have  never  been  able  to 
find  out  whether  it  belongs  to  the  Malay  or 
the  Kling  or  the  Tamil. 

The  yelling  became  more  distinct.  A 
troop  of  brown  and  silver  wab-wabs  swung 
with  their  long  arms  out  to  the  very  edge  of 
the  jungle  and  then  up  to  the  tops  of  the 
highest  trees,  the  while  uttering  the  full, 
clear  note  from  which  they  take  their  name; 
followed  by  a  troop  of  gray  little  jungle 


A   Pig  Hunt  257 


monkeys,  whistling  and  scolding  at  the  un- 
wonted disturbance.  A  colony  of  cicadas  on 
the  limbs  of  a  great  gutta  tree  awoke  into 
life  and  pierced  our  ears  with  buzz-saw 
strains. 

In  an  instant  we  were  all  alert,  —  the  heat 
was  forgotten.  At  any  minute  a  herd  of 
pigs  might  dart  out  and  on  to  us,  or  possi- 
bly our  drivers  might  rouse  a  tiger.  The 
screaming  ascended  to  a  delirious  pitch  — 
the  pigs  were  discovered  !  I  threw  my 
cartridge  from  the  magazine  into  the  barrel. 
It  was  a  50  x  95  Express  and  I  had  per- 
fect confidence  that  one  ball  to  a  pig  was 
sufficient. 

The  yelling  grew  nearer  until,  with  a  sud- 
den deploy,  one  hundred  Klings  and  Malays 
dashed  out  into  the  open,  close  on  the  heels 
of  a  dozen  wild  pigs.  We  could  just  see 
their  black  backs  above  the  grass,  as  they 
broke  down  a  little  ravine  in  single  file,  led 
by  a  big,  hoary  boar  with  tusks.  They  were 


258      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

three  hundred  yards  off,  but  I  could  not  re- 
sist the  temptation.  I  brought  my  rifle  to 
my  shoulder  and  fired  twice  in  rapid  succes- 
sion. Two  or  three  more  shots  were  heard 
beyond.  I  threw  out  the  shells  as  the  herd 
lunged  on  me.  It  was  so  sudden  that  I 
was  dazed,  but  fortunately  so  were  the  pigs, 
with  the  exception  of  a  wary  old  leader, 
who  made  into  the  jungle  behind,  almost 
between  my  legs.  One  little  fellow  threw 
himself  on  his  haunches  for  an  instant  and 
stared  at  me.  I  came  to  my  senses  first  and 
put  a  ball  into  his  wondering  eyes.  My 
second  shot  was  so  near  that  it  tore  away  a 
pound  of  meat  from  his  shoulder  and  killed 
him  instantly. 

The  firing  had  opened  up  all  along  the 
line.  The  drivers  were  pushing  in  nearer 
and  nearer,  beating  the  grass  and  clumps  of 
bushes,  seemingly  regardless  of  the  widely 
flying  balls.  I  suspect  they  held  our  prow- 
ess in  contempt.  I  know  they  looked  it, 


<T 


A    PIG    HUNT    IN    THE   JUNGLE 
The  wary  old  leader  made  into  the  jungle  behind 


A  Pig   Hunt  259 


when  it  was  discovered  that  out  of  the  dozen 
pigs  they  had  raised,  we  had  allowed  over 
half  to  escape.  Then,  too,  their  lives  were 
insured,  in  a  way ;  for  they  knew  that  their 
deaths  would  cost  us  twenty  big  Mexican 
dollars. 

Pig-hunting  is  the  one  big-game  hunt 
that  can  be  indulged  in  on  the  Malay 
Peninsula  without  great  preparation  and 
danger.  Deer  and  tapirs  are  scarce.  Tigers, 
or  harimau  as  the  Malays  call  them,  abound, 
but  live  in  the  depths  of  the  almost  inacces- 
sible jungle,  and  come  forth  only  at  rare 
intervals,  except  in  the  case  of  the  man- 
eaters,  who  are  usually  ignominiously  caught 
in  pitfalls,  very  seldom  affording  true  sport. 
Elephants  are  still  hunted  in  the  native 
states  north  of  Singapore,  but  the  sport  is 
too  expensive  for  the  generality  of  sports- 
men. One  of  the  peculiar  attributes  of  the 
Malayan  tiger  is  his  decided  penchant  for 
Chinese  flesh,  repeatedly  striking  down  Chi- 


260      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

nese  coolies  in  the  fields  to  the  exclusion  of 
the  Malays  or  Europeans  who  are  working 
by  their  side.  Perhaps  once  a  month,  a 
tiger  or  his  skin  will  be  brought  into  the 
city  by  natives,  and  several  times  at  night  I 
have  heard  them  in  the  jungle ;  but  to  my 
knowledge  only  three  have  been  shot  by 
European  sportsmen  during  my  residence  in 
the  island.  So  wild  pigs  really  remain  the 
one  item  of  big  game. 

The  pigs  live  in  the  jungle  bordering  plan- 
tations in  which  they  can  range  for  pineapples, 
sweet  potatoes,  and  tapioca  root.  They  are 
the  ordinary  wild  hog,  black  in  color,  and 
fleet  of  foot.  The  older  ones  have  good- 
sized  tusks  and  show  fight  when  cornered. 
The  lone  sportsman  has  very  little  chance  of 
obtaining  a  shot,  so  they  are  hunted  in  large 
companies  of  from  five  to  fifteen  guns.  Such 
parties  generally  organize  a  hunt  at  least 
once  a  week  and  leave  Singapore  early  in 
the  morning  for  an  all-day  shoot. 


A  Pig  Hunt  261 

The  pig  hunts  organized  by  the  officers  of 
the  Royal  Artillery  are  the  largest,  and  as 
a  description  of  one  is  a  description  of  all,  I 
will  take  one  up  in  regular  order,  rather  than 
quote  from  many. 

We  left  Singapore  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning  in  a  four-horse  dray.  As  the  sun 
had  not  reached  the  tops  of  the  trees,  the  at- 
mosphere was  mild  .and  pleasant.  A  half- 
hour  took  us  outside  the  great  cosmopolitan 
city,  of  three  hundred  thousand  inhabitants. 
The  low,  cool  bungalows  with  their  wide- 
spreading  lawns  gave  place  to  the  grass- 
thatched  huts  of  the  Chinese  coolies,  and  the 
omnipresent  eating-stalls.  A  hard-packed 
road  carried  us  through  almost  endless  cocoa- 
nut  groves.  At  intervals  a  Malay  kampong, 
or  village,  was  revealed  in  the  heart  of  the 
grove,  its  queer  <2//<zp-thatched  houses  raised 
a  man's  height  from  the  ground,  and  con- 
nected with  it  by  rickety  ladders.  Dozens 
of  nude  little  children  played  under  the 


262       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

shadow  of  the  palms,  while  the  comely  faces 
and  jryr^-stained  teeth  of  their  mothers  peeped 
at  us  from  behind  low  barred  windows.  The 
cocoanut  groves  were  superseded  by  tapioca, 
pepper,  and  coffee  plantations.  At  regular 
distances  were  neat  stations,  manned  by  Malay 
and  Sikh  police.  The  roads  over  which  we 
dashed  were  in  perfect  repair.  In  another 
hour  we  were  nine  miles  from  Singapore  and 
near  our  first  "beat." 

Major  Rich  had  sent  his  shikaris  on  the 
night  before  to  collect  beaters,  so  that  when 
we  arrived  we  were  welcomed  by  a  small  army 
of  Klings,  Tamils,  and  Malays,  and  the  usual 
sprinkling  of  pariah  dogs.  A  wild,  strange 
set  are  these  beaters.  They  toil  not,  neither 
do  they  spin.  Their  wives  do  that  occasion- 
ally, making  a  few  sarongs  for  home  use  and 
an  odd  one  for  the  market.  Cocoanuts, 
pineapples,  a  little  patch  of  paddy  with  a 
dozen  half-wild  chickens,  and  perchance,  if 
they  are  not  Mohammedans,  a  pig  with  its 


A  Pig  Hunt 


263 


litter,  afford  them  sustenance.  For  their 
day's  beating  they  were  to  receive  fifteen 
cents  apiece.  They  were  all  ranged  in  line 
and  counted,  after  which  we  took  up  our 
march  through  a  plantation  of  tapioca,  the 
brush  standing  about  level  with  our  heads. 
Chinese  coolies  were  working  about  its  roots 
keeping  down  the  great  pest  of  Malayan  farm- 
ers,—  lallang  grass.  The  tapioca  was  broken 
in  places  by  a  few  acres  of  pepper  vines  and 
again  by  neglected  coffee  shrubs. 

Our  procession  was  truly  formidable.  Fifty 
or  more  natives  went  on  ahead  making  a 
path.  Then  we  followed,  fifteen  in  number, 
each  with  a  native  to  carry  his  gun.  The 
rear  was  brought  up  by  twoscore  more  and 
half  as  many  dogs.  Three-quarters  of  an 
hour's  walk  brought  us  to  our  first  beat. 
The  head  shikaris  placed  us  in  an  open 
position,  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  yards 
apart,  facing  the  jungle.  The  beaters,  in 
the  meantime,  had  gone  by  a  long  detour 


264      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

around   the  jungle   to   drive  whatever  it  con- 
tained within  reach  of  our  guns. 

In  the  second  of  these  beats  (I  described 
the  first  in  the  opening  of  this  chapter)  a 
deer  ran  out  far  in  advance  of  the  pigs. 
We  caught  but  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  it 
above  the  grass.  My  gun  and  that  of  my 
neighbor  went  off  simultaneously.  The  deer 
disappeared.  We  rushed  to  the  spot  and 
found  the  leaves  dyed  with  blood.  Then 
commenced  a  chase,  which,  although  fruitless, 
was  well  worth  the  exertion.  All  the  pano- 
rama of  tropical  life  seemed  to  lay  in  our 
tracks.  For  an  half-hour  we  traversed  the 
rolling  plain  with  its  burden  of  grass.  Some 
smoker  dropped  a  match  in  it,  and  in  an 
instant  it  was  all  ablaze,  spreading  away  like 
a  whirlwind,  burning  only  the  very  tips, 
toward  a  distant  jungle.  Then  we  dove 
into  a  bosky  wood  by  a  narrow  winding 
path,  and  through  a  stream  of  water.  The 
path  was  like  a  tunnel,  the  dense  foliage 


A  Pig  Hunt  265 


shutting  it  in  on  both  sides  and  above. 
The  thorns  of  the  rattans  reached  down 
and  tore  our  clothes,  and  long  trailing  rub- 
ber-vines caught  up  our  helmets  and  held 
our  feet.  In  a  marshy  bit  of  jungle,  a 
small  colony  of  unwieldy  sago  palms  found 
root,  while  pitcher-plants  and  orchids  hung 
from  almost  every  limb.  Clumsy  gray  igua- 
nas and  long-tailed  lizards  of  a  brilliant 
green  rushed  up  the  trunks  of  lichen-cov- 
ered trees.  Troops  of  monkeys  went  scat- 
tering away  on  all  sides,  and  black  squirrels 
chattered  on  in  the  perfect  security  of  the 
dim  obscurity.  In  a  bit  of  sandy  bottom, 
a  silken-haired,  zebra-striped  tapir  scuttled 
away  ere  we  were  half  alive  to  his  presence. 
Outside  was  the  metallic  glare  of  the 
Malayan  sun  once  more,  now  at  its  height, 
and  another  march  was  before  us,  over  the 
burning  hot  mesa.  At  one  o'clock  we  came 
upon  a  half-neglected  plantation.  The  bloody 
trail  of  the  deer  led  through  it.  In  the 


266      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

centre  of  the  plantation  we  found  a  huge 
wedge-shaped  at  tap  house  for  drying  pepper, 
and  there  we  rested. 

Our  tiffin  baskets  were  six  miles  away  in 
the  dray,  and  sending  after  them  was  out  of 
the  question.  So  we  foraged  for  eatables. 
Cocoanuts  were  easily  obtained  from  trees  all 
about,  and  a  little  whiskey  mixed  with  its 
milk  made  a  very  refreshing  drink.  Pine- 
apples, small  oranges,  limes,  papayas,  custard 
apples,  and  bananas  were  in  large  quantities. 
Our  drivers  added  to  this  bill  of  fare  by 
roasting  the  sweet-potato-like  roots  of  the 
tapioca.  After  this  impromptu  lunch  they 
compounded  their  quids  of  areca-nut  and 
lime,  and  were  ready  once  more  to  beat  up 
an  adjacent  jungle  for  deer,  pig,  or  tiger. 

As  before,  we  were  soon  in  position  in  the 
open  before  the  jungle  and  the  beaters  were 
yelling  at  the  top  of  their  voices. 

I  was  half  dozing  in  the  sun,  trying  to 
smoke  a  Manila  cigar  that  my  mouth  was 


A  Pig  Hunt  267 


too  dry  to  draw,  when  I  was  aroused  by  my 
neighbor,  who  called  my  attention  to  a  file  of 
pigs  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  line.  I  could 
just  see  what  was  going  on  from  the  knoll  on 
which  I  was  standing.  They  were  received 
by  Major  Rich,  one  of  his  subalterns,  and  his 
Hindu  gun-carrier.  One  of  the  file  fell  at 
the  first  volley,  two  more  broke  through  the 
line,  and  the  remaining  six  or  seven,  led  by  a 
fierce  old  fellow,  from  whose  long  tusks  the 
foam  dripped,  turned  up  the  line  and  charged 
point-blank  on  the  next  gunner,  who  fired 
and  missed,  but  succeeded  in  keeping  them 
between  the  line  and  the  jungle.  The  fourth 
gun  brought  down  the  second  pig  and 

k  wounded  the  boar  in  the  shoulder.  Frantic 
with  rage  and  pain,  the  old  fellow  tore  up 
the  ground  and  grass  with  his  tusks  and 
then,  seeming  to  give  up  all  idea  of  escape, 
wheeled  sharply  around  and  with  his  back 
bristles  standing  erect  and  his  mouth  open, 
charged  directly  on  to  the  fifth,  who  was  in 


268      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

the  act  of  throwing  the  cartridge  into  the 
barrel.  Taken  completely  by  surprise,  the 
officer  gave  one  lusty  yell  and  started  to  run 
in  line  with  the  gun  on  his  right.  The  boar 
was  gaining  on  him  at  every  step  when  he 
tripped  and  fell.  The  report  of  No.  6's  Win- 
chester Express  rang  out  almost  simultane- 
ously. For  an  instant  we  held  our  breaths, 
wondering  whether  the  man  or  boar  had  been 
hit.  It  was  a  splendid  shot  and  took  a 
steady  hand.  The  boar's  shoulder  was  shat- 
tered and  his  heart  reached.  Two  or  three 
angry  grunts  and  he  lay  quiet.  He  weighed 
close  to  three  hundred  pounds.  The  bristles 
on  his  back  were  white  with  age.  All  in  all, 
he  was  not  nice  to  look  at. 

As  half  of  our  beaters  were  Mohamme- 
dams  and  so  forbidden  to  touch  pork,  the 
burden  of  carrying  our  pigs  the  six  miles 
through  lallang  grass,  jungle  and  swamp 
land,  came  hard  on  our  Brahmists.  We 
knew  that  the  only  way  to  make  them  work 


A  Pig  Hunt 


269 


was  to  call  them  "  Sons  of  dogs  "  and  walk  off 
and  leave  them  with  a  parting  injunction  to 
"get  in  by  the  time  we  did  if  they  wanted 
their  wages." 

This  we  did  without  deigning  to  notice 
their  pathetic  gestures,  heart-rending  appeals 
and  protestations  to  the  "  Sons  of  the  Heaven- 
Born"  that  they  could  not  lift  one  hundredth 
part  of  such  burdens. 


In  the  Court  of  Johore 
GroUming  of  a  cpalapn  prince 


TUNKU  IBRAHIM  was  just  past  sev- 
enteen  when     his     father,    the     Sultan 
Abubaker,  chose  to  recognize  him  as  his  heir 
and  Crown  Prince  of  Johore. 

From  the  day  when  the  little  prince  had 
been  deemed  old  enough  to  leave  his  mother 
and  the  women's  palace  until  the  day  he  had 
entered  the  native  artillery  as  a  lieutenant, 
he  had  been  schooled  and  trained  by  the 
English  missionaries  and  the  Tuan  Kadi,  or 
Mohammedan  high  priest,  as  becomes  a  son 
of  so  illustrious  a  father. 

Tunku  Ibrahim  had  made  one  trip  to  Eng- 
land when  he  was  fifteen  years  old,  and  with 
his  little  cousin,  the  Tunku,  or  Prince,  Othman, 
had  dined  with  the  Queen  at  Windsor. 

270 


In  the  Court  of  Johore          271 

So,  when  the  Sultan  returned  from  a  long 
stay  at  Carlsbad  and  found  that  the  Sultana 
was  dead  and  that  Ibrahim  had  shot  up  into 
a  man,  he  said  :  — 

"  I  am  getting  to  be  an  old  man  and  may 
die  at  any  time.  I  will  call  all  my  nobles 
and  people  to  the  palace,  and  they  shall  see 
me  place  the  crown  on  Ibrahim's  head. 
Then  if  I  die,  he  will  rule,  and  the  British 
will  not  take  his  country  from  him  as  long 
as  he  is  wise  and  kingly." 

Whereupon  his  Highness  sent  out  invi- 
tations to  the  Governor  and  all  the  foreign 
consuls  in  Singapore  to  be  his  guests  and 
witness  the  crowning  of  his  son. 

We  started  in  quaint  little  box-like  car- 
riages, called  gharries,  long  before  the  fierce 
Malayan  sun  had  risen  above  the  palms, 
accomplishing  the  fourteen  miles  across  the 
beautiful  island  in  little  over  an  hour. 

The  diminutive  Deli  ponies,  not  larger  than 
Newfoundland  dogs,  broke  into  a  run  the 


272       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

moment  we  closed  the  lattice  doors,  and  it 
was  all  their  half-naked  drivers  could  do  to 
keep  their  perches  on  the  swaying  shafts. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  little  half- Malay, 
half-Chinese  village  of  Kranji,  on  the  shores 
of  the  famous  old  Straits  of  Malacca,  our 
ponies  were  panting  with  heat,  and  the  sun 
beat  down  on  our  white  cork  helmets  with 
a  quivering,  naked  intensity. 

Close  up  to  the  shore  we  found  a  long, 
keel  boat  manned  by  a  dozen  Malays  in 
canary-colored  suits.  An  aide-de-camp  in  a 
gorgeous  uniform  of  gold  and  blue  came 
forward  and  touched  his  forehead  with  the 
back  of  his  brown  palm  and  said  in  good 
English :  — 

"  His  Highness  awaits  your  excellencies." 

We  stepped  into  the  boat.  The  men 
lightly  dipped  their  spear-shaped  paddles 
in  the  tepid  water,  the  rattan  oarlocks 
squeaked  shrilly,  and  the  light  prow  shot 
out  into  the  strait.  We  could  see  the  istana, 


In  the   Court  of  Johore          273 

or  palace,  close  down  to  the  opposite  shore, 
with  the  royal  standard  of  white,  with  black 
star  and  crescent  in  centre,  floating  above  it. 

For  a  moment  I  felt  as  though  I  had 
invaded  some  dreamland  of  my  childhood. 

As  our  boat  drew  up  to  the  iron  pier  that 
extended  from  the  broad  palace  steps  out 
into  the  straits,  the  guns  from  the  little  fort 
on  the  hill  above  the  town  boomed  out  a 
welcome  and  the  flags  of  our  several  countries 
were  run  to  the  tops  of  the  poles.  A  squad  of 
native  soldiers  presented  arms,  and  we  were 
conducted  up  the  stone  steps,  to  the  cool, 
dim  corridors  of  the  reception  or  waiting 
room.  Malays  in  red  fezzes  and  silken 
sarongs  that  hung  about  their  legs  like  skirts 
conducted  us  along  a  marble  hall  to  our 
rooms  in  a  wing  of  the  palace.  Crowds  were 
already  gathering  outside  on  the  palace 
grounds,  and  we  could  look  down  from  our 
windows  and  watch  them  as  we  bathed, 
dressed,  and  drank  tea. 


274      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

The  Chinese  in  their  holiday  pantaloons 
and  shirts  of  pink,  lavender,  and  blue  silk 
outnumbered  all  the  other  races ;  for,  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  this  Malay  Sultan  numbers 
among  his  250,000  or  300,000  subjects 
175,000  Chinamen.  They  are  as  loyal  and  a 
great  deal  more  industrious  than  the  Malays, 
and  many  of  them,  styled  Eaboos^  do  not 
even  know  their  native  tongue. 

The  Malays,  dressed  in  gayly  colored  sa- 
rongs and  bajus  (jackets),  with  little  rimless 
caps  on  their  heads,  squatted  on  their  heels 
and  chewed  betel-nut,  with  eyes  half  closed 
and  mouths  distended. 

The  Arab  traders  and  shopkeepers  were 
grouped  about  in  little  knots,  gravely  con- 
versing and  watching  the  files  of  gharries,  or 
carriages,  and  even  rickshaws,  that  were  bring- 
ing Malay  unkus  (princes  not  of  the  royal 
blood),  patos  (peers),  holy  men,  and  rich 
Chinese  mandarins  to  the  steps  that  led  up 
to  the  plaza  before  the  throne-room. 


In  the  Court  of  Johore          275 

The  palace  was  two  stories  high,  long  and 
narrow.  The  interior  rooms  were  separated 
from  the  outer  walls  by  wide,  airy  corridors. 
The  lattice-work  windows  were  without  glass 
and  were  arranged  to  admit  the  breezes  from 
the  ocean  and  ward  off  the  searching  rays  of 
the  equatorial  sun.  In  these  dusky  corridors 
were  long  rattan  chairs,  divans,  and  tables 
covered  with  refreshments,  and  along  its 
walls  were  arranged  weapons  of  war  and 
chase,  Japanese  suits  of  straw  armor,  Java- 
nese shields,  and  Malay  krises  and  limbings. 

In  a  little  court  at  the  end  of  our  corridor, 
where  a  fountain  splashed  over  a  clump  of 
lotus  flowers  and  blue  water  lilies,  a  long- 
armed  silver  wah-wah  monkey  played  with  a 
black  Malay  cat  that  had  a  kink  in  its  tail 
like  the  joint  in  a  stovepipe,  and  chased  the 
clucking  little  gray  lizards  up  the  polished 
walls. 

The  gorgeous  aide  stared  in  poorly  con- 
cealed wonderment,  when  he  entered  to  con- 


276      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

duct  us  to  the  grand  salon,  at  my  plain 
evening  dress  suit,  destitute  of  gold  lace  or 
decorations,  but  he  was  too  polite  to  say 
anything,  and  I  humbly  followed  my  uni- 
formed colleagues  through  the  long  suite 
of  rooms.  It  would  have  been  useless  for 
me  to  have  tried  to  explain  the  great  Ameri- 
can doctrine  of  "  Jeffersonian  simplicity."  He 
would  have  shrugged  his  narrow  shoulders, 
which  would  have  meant,  "  When  you  are 
among  Romans,  you  should  do  as  Romans 
do/' 

In  the  grand  salon,  more  than  in  any 
other  part  of  the  palace,  one  feels  that  he  is 
in  the  home  of  an  Oriental  prince  whose 
tastes  far  outrun  his  own  dominions. 

Velvet  carpets  from  Holland,  divans  from 
Turkey,  rugs  from  Bokhara,  tapestries  from 
Persia,  and  lace  from  France  mingle  with 
embroideries  from  China,  cut  glass  from 
England,  and  rare  old  Satsuma  ware  from 
Japan.  On  a  grand  square  German  piano 


In  the  Court  of  Johore          277 

is  a  mass  of  music  in  which  the  masterpieces 
of  all  countries  have  equal  rights  with  the 
national  anthem  of  Johore. 

Going  directly  through  a  mass  of  Oriental 
drapery,  we  are  in  the  throne-room,  where 
are  gathered  the  nobility  of  the  little  Sul- 
tanate. 

Amid  the  crash  of  music  and  the  booming 
of  guns  the  Sultan  took  his  seat  in  one  of 
the  gilded  chairs  on  the  dais,  with  the  Eng- 
lish Governor  on  his  left.  Ranged  about 
the  burnished  walls  of  the  great  room,  sev- 
eral files  deep,  were  the  nobility  of  the 
kingdom,  the  ministers  of  state,  and  officers 
of  the  army  and  navy,  the  space  back  of 
them  being  filled  with  Chinese  mandarins 
and  towkoys,  and  rich  native  merchants  in 
their  picturesque  costumes.  In  front  of  the 
nobility,  standing  in  the  form  of  a  square, 
were  the  sons  of  the  datos,  each  bearing 
golden,  jewel-studded  chogans,  spears,  krises, 
and  maces.  Inside  the  square  stood  the  fif- 


278      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

teen  consuls.  Back  of  the  throne  were  four 
young  princes,  two  bearing  each  the  golden 
bejewelled  kris  of  the  Malay,  another  the 
golden  sword  of  state,  and  the  fourth  the 
cimeter  of  the  Prophet. 

Up  to  the  steps  of  the  throne  came  the 
young  prince,  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  a 
lieutenant  of  artillery,  with  the  royal  order 
of  Darjah  Krabat  ablaze  with  jewels  on  his 
breast.  He  was  slightly  taller  than  his  father, 
the  Sultan,  straight,  graceful,  and  handsome, 
with  big,  brown  eyes  and  strongly  marked 
features.  He  was  nervous  and  agitated,  and 
his  lips  trembled  as  he  bent  on  one  knee 
and  kissed  his  Highnesses  hand. 

Above  our  heads  in  the  gilded  walls,  be- 
hind a  grated  opening,  were  Inche  Kitega, 
the  Sultan's  beautiful  Circassian  wife,  and  the 
women  of  the  court.  We  could  see  their 
black  eyes  as  they  peered  curiously  down. 
It  was  only  when  the  Dato  Mentri,  or 
Prime  Minister,  stood  up  and  asked  his 


In  the  Court  of  Johore          279 

people  if  they  wished  the  young  Tunku  to 
be  their  future  lord  that  we  could  hear  their 
shrill  voices  mingling  with  the  "  Suku,  su- 
ku"  ("We  wish  it,  we  wish  it"),  of  the 
men. 

It  is  only  the  wives  of  the  nobles  that  are 
secluded  in  the  istana  isaras,  or  women 
palaces,  according  to  Mohammedan  law ;  the 
women  of  the  poor  are  as  free  as  the  more 
civilized  countries  of  Europe.  They  bask  in 
the  sun  with  their  brown  babies  on  their 
laps,  or  wander  among  the  cocoanuts  that 
always  surround  their  palm-thatched  homes, 
happy  and  contented,  with  no  thought  for 
the  morrow.  The  trees  furnish  them  their 
food,  and  a  few  hours  before  their  looms 
of  dark  kamooning  wood  each  week  keep 
them  supplied  with  their  one  article  of  dress 
—  the  sarong.  They  never  heard  of  the 
Bible,  but  they  are  very  religious,  and  at 
sunrise  and  sunset,  at  the  deep-toned  boom 
of  the  hollow  log  that  hangs  before  their 


280      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

little  thatched  mosques,  they  fall  on  their 
faces  and  pray  to  "Allah,  the  All  Merciful 
and  Loving  Kind." 

When  the  Crown  Prince  had  stepped 
modestly  back  among  his  brothers  and  cous- 
ins, a  holy  man  in  -green  robes  and  turban 
came  forward  and  read  an  address  in  Arabic. 
He  recited  the  glories  of  the  Prophet,  the 
promises  of  the  Koran,  and  then  told  of 
the  ancient  greatness  of  Johore,  —  how  it 
once  ruled  the  great  peninsula  that  forever 
points  like  a  lean,  disjointed  finger  down 
into  the  heart  of  the  greatest  archipelago  of 
the  world,  —  how  its  ruler  was  looked  up  to 
and  made  treaties  with,  by  the  kings  of 
Europe,  —  of  the  coming  of  the  thieving 
Portuguese  and  the  brutal  Dutch,  —  of  the 
dark,  bloody  years  when  the  deposed  descend- 
ants of  the  once  proud  Emperors  of  Johore 
turned  to  piracy,  —  of  the  new  days  that 
commenced  when  that  great  Englishman,  Sir 
Stamford  Raffles,  founded  Singapore,  —  down 


In  the  Court  of  Johore          281 

to  the  glorious  reign  of  the  present  just 
ruler,  Abubaker. 

Our  eyes  wandered  from  time  to  time  out 
through  the  cool  marble  courts  and  tried  vainly 
to  pierce  the  botanic  chaos  that  crowded 
close  up  to  the  palace  grounds.  Banian  and 
sacred  waringhan  trees  covered  great  stretches 
of  ground,  and  dropped  their  fantastic  roots 
into  the  steaming  earth  like  living  stalactites. 
The  fan-shaped,  water-hoarding  traveller's  palm 
formed  a  background  for  the  brilliant  magenta- 
colored  bougainvillea.  The  dim,  translucent 
depths  of  an  orchid-house  lured  us  on,  or  a 
great  pond  covered  with  the  sacred  lotus, 
blue  lilies,  and  the  flush-colored  cups  of  the 
superb  Victoria  regia  commanded  our  ad- 
miration. Palms,  flowering  shrubs,  ferns,  and 
creepers  rioted  on  all  sides.  Monkeys  swung 
above  in  the  ropelike  tendrils  of  the  rubber- 
vines,  and  spotted  deer  gamboled  beneath 
the  shade  of  mango  trees. 

The  brilliant  audience    listened  with    bated 


282       Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

breath  to  the  dramatic  recital  of  their  nation's 
story.  Even  we,  who  did  not  understand 
a  word,  were  impressed  by  their  flushed  faces 
and  eager  attention,  and  when  the  band  in 
the  columned  corridors  beyond  broke  forth 
into  the  national  anthem  of  Johore  and  the 
vast  concourse  outside  took  up  the  shouts 
of  fealty  that  began  within,  I,  for  one,  felt 
an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  join  in  the 
shouts  and  do  honor  to  the  kindly  old  Sul- 
tan and  his  graceful  son. 

After  his  Highness,  the  Sultan,  had  spoken, 
through  the  mouth  of  his  Prime  Minister, 
to  the  nobles,  and  commended  his  son  to 
their  care,  we  crowded  forward  and  congratu- 
lated him  in  the  names  of  our  respective 
countries. 

We  filed  through  the  grand  salon,  with 
its  luxurious  medley  of  divans,  tapestries, 
and  rugs,  through  a  great  hall  whose  walls 
were  hung  with  heroic-sized  paintings  of  the 
English  royal  family,  down  a  flight  of  steps, 


In  the  Court  of  Johore          283 

across  the  marble  reception  room,  and  into 
the  open  doors  of  the  royal  dining  room. 

From  its  polished  ceiling  of  black  billion 
wood  hung  great  white  punkahs,  which  half- 
nude  Indians  on  the  outside  kept  gently 
swaying  back  and  forth. 

In  the  centre  of  the  vast  table  stood  a 
golden  urn  filled  with  delicate  maidenhair 
ferns  and  dragon  orchids.  Against  a  great 
plate-glass  mirror,  at  the  far  end,  rested 
massive  salvers  of  gold,  engraven  with  the 
arms  of  Johore,  and  in  its  flawless  depths 
shone  the  jewels  that  decked  the  entering 
throng  and  the  splendid  service  of  plate  that 
dazzled  our  eyes. 

Around  his  Highnesses  throat  was  a  collar 
of  diamonds  and  on  his  hands  and  in  the 
decorations  that  covered  his  breast  were  dia- 
monds, emeralds,  and  rubies,  of  almost  price- 
less value.  Each  button  of  his  coat  and 
low-cut  vest  was  a  diamond,  and  from  the 
front  of  his  rimless  cap  waved  a  plume  of 


284      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

diamonds.  On  his  wrists  were  heavy  gold 
bracelets  of  Malayan  workmanship,  and  his 
fingers  were  cramped  with  almost  priceless 
rings.  In  his  buttonhole  blazed  a  diamond 
orchid.  The  handle  and  scabbard  of  his 
sword  were  a  solid  mass  of  precious  stones. 
Altogether  this  little  known  Oriental  poten- 
tate possessed  $  10,000,000  worth  of  diamonds, 
the  second  largest  collection  on  earth. 

In  personal  appearance  his  Highness  com- 
pared favorably  with  the  best  representatives 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  He  was  five  feet 
eight  in  height,  well  built,  with  clean-cut, 
kindly  features,  in  color  nearer  the  Spanish 
type  than  the  Indian.  His  hands  and  feet 
were  small,  forehead  high  and  full,  lips  thin, 
and  nose  aquiline,  his  hair  and  mustache  iron 
gray.  He  spoke  good  English,  and  was 
able  to  converse  in  French  and  German.  In 
every-day  dress  he  affected  the  English  Prince 
Albert  suit,  to  which  he  added  a  narrow 
silk  sarong  and  a  rimless  black  cap. 


In  the   Court  of  Johore  285 

Besides  being  a  lover  of  jewels,  his  High- 
ness was  a  lover  of  good  horseflesh  and  of 
yachts.  His  stud  comprised  two  hundred 
horses,  among  which  were  fleet  Arabians, 
sturdy  little  Deli  ponies,  thoroughbred  Aus- 
tralians, and  Indian  galloways.  Twice  a  year 
he  offered  a  cup  at  the  Singapore  jockey 
races,  and  entered  a  half  dozen  of  his  best  run- 
ners. At  his  tent  on  the  grounds  he  dispensed 
champagne,  ices,  and  cakes,  and  his  native  band 
of  thirty  pieces  played  alternately  with  the 
regimental  band  from  the  English  barracks. 

His  three  hundred  ton  steam-launch  was 
built  on  the  Clyde.  Besides  the  Sultan's 
saloon  on  the  lower  deck,  which  was  fur- 
nished befitting  a  king,  there  were  cabins  for 
ten  people.  The  promenade  deck  was  under 
an  awning,  and  was  furnished  with  a  heavy 
rosewood  dining-table  and  long  chairs.  She 
carried  four  guns  of  long  range. 

The  revenue  of  Johore  amounts  to  six 
million  dollars  a  year,  to  which  the  Sultan's 


286      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

private  property  in  Singapore  adds  nearly  a 
half  million  more.  The  bulk  of  the  national 
revenue  is  raised  from  opium,  spirits,  and 
gambling.  The  scheme  of  taxation  is  simple, 
but  most  effective.  Any  Chinaman  who  has 
a  longing  for  the  pipe  pays  into  his  High- 
ness's  treasury  one  dollar  a  month,  and  is 
granted  a  permit  to  buy  and  smoke  opium ; 
another  monthly  dollar  and  he  is  licensed  to 
drink. 

The  gambling  privilege  is  given  to  the 
highest  bidder,  and  he  has  the  monopoly  for 
the  kingdom.  There  is  also  a  small  export 
tax  on  gambier  and  tin.  On  the  other  hand, 
any  immigrant  that  wishes  to  settle  and  open 
a  farm  of  any  kind  is  given  all  the  ground 
he  can  work,  rent  free,  to  have  and  to  hold  as 
long  as  he  keeps  it  under  cultivation.  Should 
he  leave,  it  reverts  with  all  its  improvements 
to  the  crown. 

The  government  is  autocratic,  but  tem- 
pered and  kept  in  sympathy  with  the  Eng- 


In  the  Court  of  Johore          287 

lish  ideas  of  justice  as  seen  in  the  great 
colonies  that  surround  it. 

The  dinner  throughout  was  European,  save 
for  the  one  national  dish,  curry.  Every 
Malay,  from  the  poorest  fisherman  along  the 
mangrove-fretted  lagoon  to  the  chef  of  his 
Highnesses  kitchen,  justly  boasts  of  the  ex- 
cellence of  his  curry  and  the  number  of  sam- 
buls  he  can  make. 

First  came  a  golden  bowl  filled  with  rice, 
as  white  and  as  light  as  snow ;  then  another, 
in  which  was  a  gravy  of  yellow  curry  pow- 
der, choice  bits  of  fowl,  and  plump,  fresh 
slices  of  egg-plant.  Then  came  the  sambuls^ 
or  condiments,  more  than  forty  varieties,  in 
little  circular  dishes  of  Japanese  ware  on  big 
silver  trays.  There  were  fish-roes,  ginger, 
and  dried  fish,  or  "  Bombay  duck/'  duck's 
eggs  hashed  with  spices,  chutney,  peppers, 
grated  cocoanut,  anchovies,  browned  crumbs, 
chicken  livers,  fried  bananas,  barley  sprouts, 
onions,  and  many  more,  that  were  mixed  and 


288       Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

stirred  into  the  spongy  rice  until  your  taste 
was  baffled  and  your  senses  bewildered. 

We  knew  that  the  curry  was  coming,  so 
we  passed  courses  that  were  as  expensive  and 
rare  in  this  equatorial  land  as  the  fruit  of 
the  durians  would  be  in  New  York,  —  mut- 
ton from  Shanghai,  turkey  from  Siam,  beef 
from  Australia,  and  oysters  from  far  up  the 
river  Maur.  We  felt  that  besides  being  a 
pleasure  to  ourselves  it  was  a  compliment  to 
our  royal  host  to  partake  generously  of  his 
national  dish. 

"  This  service,"  said  the  old  Tuan  Hakim, 
or  chief  justice,  pointing  to  the  gold  plate 
off  which  we  were  dining,  "is  the  famous 
Ellinborough  plate  that  once  belonged  to 
that  strange  woman,  Lady  Ellinborough.  His 
Highness  attended  the  auction  of  her  things 
in  Scotland.  Do  you  see  the  little  Arabic 
character  on  the  rim  of  each  ?  It  is  the  late 
Sultana's  name.  His  Highness  telegraphed 
to  her  for  the  money  to  pay  for  it,  and  she 


In  the  Court  of  Johore          289 

telegraphed  back  two  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars, with  the  request  that  her  name  be  en- 
graved on  each.  Then  she  presented  them 
to  her  husband.  The  Sultana  was  very  rich 
in  her  own  right,  and  left  the  Sultan  over 
two  million  dollars  when  she  died." 

Throughout  the  long  dinner  the  native 
band  played  the  airs  of  Europe  and  Amer- 
ica, intermixed  with  bits  of  weird  Malayan 
song.  After  we  had  lighted  our  cigars  from 
the  golden  censer,  the  British  Governor  arose 
and  proposed  the  health  of  the  Sultan  and 
the  young  heir  apparent.  His  Highness 
raised  his  glass  of  pineapple  juice  to  his  lips 
in  acknowledgment,  and  said  smilingly  to  me 
as  the  Prime  Minister  said  the  magic  word 
that  stirs  every  Englishman's  heart, — 

"The  Queen!" 

"  Your  people  think  all  Orientals  very  bad." 

I  protested. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do ;  that  is  why  you  send 
so  many  missionaries  among  us.  But,"  he 


290      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

went  on  pleasantly,  "  look  around  my  table. 
Not  one  of  my  court  has  touched  the  wine. 
A  Mohammedan  never  drinks.  Can  you 
say  as  much  for  your  people  ?  " 

Then  he  raised  his  glass  once  more  to  his 
lips  and  said  quietly,  while  his  eyes  twinkled 
at  my  confusion  :  — 

"  Tell  your  great  President  that  Abubaker, 
Sultan  of  Johore,  drank  his  health  in  simple 
pineapple  juice." 

As  the  sun  sank  behind  the  misty  dome 
of  Mount  Pulei  we  embarked  once  more  at 
the  broad  palace  steps  in  the  royal  barges, 
amid  the  booming  of  guns  and  the  strains  of 
the  international  "  God  Save  the  Queen,"  "  My 
Country,  'tis  of  Thee,"  and  bared  our  heads 
to  the  royal  standard  of  Johore  that  floated  so 
proudly  above  the  palace,  thankful  for  this 
short  peep  into  the  heart  of  an  Oriental  court. 

So  the  young  Prince  received  the  crown 
from  the  hands  of  his  father.  To-day,  the 


In  the  Court  of  Johore          291 

bones  of  that  grand  old  statesman,  the  Sultan 
of  Johore,  rest  beside  those  of  his  royal 
fathers  within  the  shadow  of  the  mosque. 

In  1819  when  Sir  Stamford  Raffles  pur- 
chased the  island  on  which  Singapore  now 
stands  from  the  father  of  the  late  Sultan  of 
Johore,  the  royal  palace  was  a  palm-thatched 
bungalow,  the  country  an  unbroken  jungle, 
and  the  inhabitants  pirates  and  fishermen  by 
turns ;  the  notorious  Strait  of  Malacca  was 
infested  with  long,  keen,  swift  pirate  praus, 
and  the  snake-like  kris  menaced  the  merchant 
marine  of  the  world. 

The  advancement  of  the  United  States  has 
not  been  more  rapid  since  that  date  than  the 
advancement  of  Johore.  The  attaf  istana^ 
or  palace,  has  given  place  to  a  series  of 
palaces  that  rival  those  of  many  a  much 
better-known  country ;  the  jungle  has  given 
place  to  plantations  of  gambier,  tea,  coffee, 
and  pepper;  the  few  elephant  tracks  and 
forest  paths,  to  a  network  of  macadamized 


292       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

roads  and  projected  railways ;  and  the  native 
praus,  to  English-built  barks  and  deeply  laden 
cargo  steamers. 

Two  hundred  thousand  hard-working, 
money-making  Chinese  have  been  added  to 
the  thirty-five  thousand  Malay  aborigines, 
and  the  revenue  of  this  remnant  of  an  empire 
is  far  greater  than  was  the  revenue  of  the 
original  state. 

It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  the  young 
Sultan  will  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  his 
father  and  preserve  to  Johore  the  distinction 
of  being,  with  the  one  exception  of  Siam,  the 
only  independent  native  kingdom  in  southern 
Asia.  One  misstep  and  he  will  become  but 
a  dependency  of  the  great  British  Empire,  a 
king  only  in  name. 


In   the   Golden   Chersonese 
ft  peep  at  tfje  Cttv  of  Singapore 

GOULD  an  American  boy,  like  a  prince 
in  the  Arabian  Nights,  be  taken  by  a 
genie  from  his  warm  bed  in  San  Francisco  or 
New  York  and  awakened  in  the  centre  of  Raffles 
Square,  in  Singapore,  I  will  wager  that  he 
would  be  sadly  puzzled  to  even  give  the  name 
of  the  continent  on  which  he  had  alighted. 

Neither  the  buildings,  the  people,  or  the 
vehicles  would  aid  him  in  the  least  to  decide. 

Enclosing  the  four  sides  of  the  little  ban- 
ian-tree shaded  park  in  which  he  stands  are 
rows  of  brick,  white-faced,  high-jointed  go- 
downs.  Through  their  glassless  windows 
great  white  punkahs  swing  back  and  forth 
with  a  ceaseless  regularity.  Standing  outside 
of  each  window,  a  tall,  graceful  punkah-wallah 

293 


294      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

tugs  at  a  rattan  withe,  his  naked  limbs  shin- 
ing like  polished  ebony  in  the  fierce  glare  of 
the  Malayan  sun. 

For  a  moment,  perhaps,  the  boy  thinks 
himself  in  India,  possibly  at  Simla,  for  he 
has  read  some  of  Rudyard  Kipling's  stories. 

Back  under  the  portico -like  verandas, 
whose  narrow  breadths  take  the  place  of 
sidewalks,  are  little  booths  that  look  like  bay 
windows  turned  inside  out.  On  the  floor  of 
each  sits  a  Turk,  cross-legged,  or  an  Arab, 
surrounded  by  a  heterogeneous  assortment 
of  wares,  fez  caps,  brass  finger-bowls,  a 
praying  rug,  a  few  boxes  of  Japanese  tooth- 
picks, some  rare  little  bottles  of  Arab  es- 
sence, a  betel-nut  box,  and  a  half  dozen  piles 
of  big  copper  cents,  for  all  shopkeepers  are 
money-changers. 

The  merchant  gathers  his  flowing  party- 
colored  robes  about  him,  tightens  the  turban 
on  his  head,  and  draws  calmly  at  his  water- 
pipe,  while  a  bevy  of  Hindu  and  Tamil 


In  the  Golden  Chersonese        295 

women  bargain  for  a  new  stud  for  their  noses, 
a  showy  amulet,  or  a  silver  ring  for  their  toes. 

Squatting  right  in  the  way  of  all  passers 
is  a  Chinese  travelling  restaurant  that  looks 
like  two  flour  barrels,  one  filled  with  drawers, 
the  other  containing  a  small  charcoal  fire. 
The  old  cookee,  with  his  queue  tied  neatly 
up  about  his  shaven  head,  takes  a  variety  of 
mixtures  from  the  drawers,  —  bits  of  dried 
fish,  seaweed,  a  handful  of  spaghetti,  pos- 
sibly a  piece  of  shark's  fin,  or  better  still  a 
lump  of  bird's  nest,  places  them  in  the  ket- 
tle, as  he  yells  from  time  to  time,  " Macbeny 
mac  hen"  (eating,  eating). 

Next  to  the  Arab  booth  is  a  Chinese  lamp 
shop,  then  a  European  dry-goods  store,  an 
Armenian  law  office,  a  Japanese  bazaar,  a 
foreign  consulate. 

A  babble  of  strange  sounds  and  a  jargon 
of  languages  salute  the  astonished  boy's  ears. 

In  the  broad  well-paved  streets  about  him 
a  Malay  syce,  or  driver,  is  trying  to  urge  his 


296       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

spotted  Deli  pony,  which  is  not  larger  than 
a  Newfoundland  dog,  in  between  a  big,  lum- 
bering two-wheeled  bullock-cart,  laden  with 
oozing  bags  of  vile-smelling  gambier,  and  a 
great  patient  water  buffalo  that  stands  sleepily 
whipping  the  gnats  from  its  black,  almost 
hairless  hide,  while  its  naked  driver  is  seated 
under  the  trees  in  the  square  quarrelling  and 
gambling  by  turns. 

The  gharry,  which  resembles  a  dry-goods 
box  on  wheels,  set  in  with  latticed  windows, 
smashes  up  against  the  ponderous  hubs  of 
the  bullock-cart.  The  meek-eyed  bullocks 
close  their  eyes  and  chew  their  cuds,  regard- 
less of  the  fierce  screams  of  the  Malay  or 
the  frenzied  objurgations  of  their  driver. 

But  no  one  pays  any  attention  to  the  mo- 
mentary confusion.  A  party  of  Jews  dressed 
in  robes  of  purple  and  red  that  sweep  the 
street  pass  by,  without  giving  a  glance  at 
the  wild  plunging  of  the  half-wild  pony.  A 
Singhalese  jeweller  is  showing  his  rubies  and 


In  the  Golden   Chersonese        297 

cat's-eyes  to  a  party  of  Eurasian,  or  half-caste 
clerks,  that  are  taking  advantage  of  their  mas- 
ter's absence  from  the  godown  to  come  out 
into  the  court  to  smoke  a  Manila  cigarette 
and  gossip.  The  mottled  tortoise-shell  comb 
in  the  vender's  black  hair,  and  his  womanish 
draperies,  give  him  a  feminine  aspect. 

An  Indian  chitty,  or  money-lender,  stands 
talking  to  a  brother,  supremely  unconscious 
of  the  eddying  throng  about.  These  cbitties 
are  fully  six  feet  tall,  with  closely  shaven 
heads  and  nude  bodies.  Their  dress  of  a 
few  yards  of  gauze  wound  about  their  waists, 
and  red  sandals,  would  not  lead  one  to  think 
that  they  handle  more  money  than  any  other 
class  of  people  in  the  East.  They  borrow 
from  the  great  English  banks  without  se- 
curity save  that  of  their  caste  name,  and  lend 
to  the  Eurasian  clerks  just  behind  them  at 
twelve  per  cent  a  month.  If  a  chitty  fails, 
he  is  driven  out  of  the  caste  and  becomes  a 
pariah.  The  caste  make  up  his  losses. 


298      Tales  of  the   Malayan  Coast 

Dyaks  from  Borneo  idle  by.  Parsee  mer- 
chants in  their  tall,  conical  hats,  Chinese  rick- 
shaw runners  and  cart  coolies,  Tamil  road- 
menders,  Bugis,  Achinese,  Siamese,  Japanese, 
Madras  serving-men,  negro  firemen,  Lascar 
sailors,  throng  the  little  square,  —  the  agora 
of  the  commercial  life  of  the  city. 

Such  is  Singapore,  embracing  all  the  races 
of  Asia  and  Europe.  Is  it  any  wonder  that 
the  American  boy  is  bewildered,  standing 
there  under  the  great  banian  tree  with  a 
Malay  in  sarong  and  kris  by  his  side,  singing 
with  his  jryr^-stained  lips  the  glorious  prom- 
ises of  the  Koran  ? 

Look  on  the  map  of  Asia  for  the  south- 
ernmost point  of  the  continent,  and  you  will 
find  it  at  the  tip  of  the  Malay  Peninsula, — 
a  giant  finger  that  points  down  into  the  heart 
of  the  greatest  archipelago  in  the  world.  At 
the  very  end  of  this  peninsula,  like  a  sort  of 
cut-off  joint  of  the  finger,  is  the  little  island 


In  the  Golden  Chersonese        299 

of  Singapore,  which  is  not  over  twenty-five 
miles  from  east  to  west,  and  does  not  exceed 
fifteen  miles  in  width  at  its  broadest  point. 

The  famous  old  Straits  of  Malacca,  which 
were  once  the  haunts  of  the  fierce  Malayan 
pirates,  separate  the  island  from  the  main- 
land and  the  Sultanate  of  Johore. 

The  shipping  that  once  worked  its  way 
through  these  narrow  straits,  in  momentary 
fear  that  its  mangrove-bound  shores  held  a 
long,  swift  pirate  prau,  now  goes  further 
south  and  into  the  island-guarded  harbor 
before  Singapore. 

Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  than  the 
sea  approach  to  Singapore.  As  you  enter 
the  Straits,  the  emerald-green  of  a  bevy  of 
little  islands  obstructs  the  vision,  and  affords 
a  grateful  relief  to  the  almost  blinding  glare 
of  the  Malayan  sky,  and  the  metallic  reflec- 
tions of  the  ocean. 

Some  seem  only  inhabited  by  a  graceful 
waving  burden  of  strange,  tropical  foliage,  and 


300      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

by  a  band  of  chattering  monkeys ;  on  others 
you  detect  a  Malay  kampong,  or  village,  its 
umbrella-like  houses  of  attapy  close  down  to 
the  shore,  built  high  up  on  poles,  so  that 
half  the  time  their  boulevards  are  but  vast 
mud-holes,  the  other  half  —  Venice,  filled 
with  a  moving  crowd  of  sampans  and  fishing 
praus.  A  crowd  of  bronzed,  naked  little 
figures  sport  within  the  shadow  of  a  maze  of 
drying  nets,  and  flee  in  consternation  as  the 
black,  log-like  head  and  cruel,  watchful  eyes 
of  a  crocodile  glide  quietly  along  the  man- 
grove roots. 

On  another  island  you  discern  the  grim 
breastworks  and  the  frowning  mouth  of  a 
piece  of  heavy  ordnance. 

Soon  the  island  of  Singapore  reveals  itself 
in  a  long  line  of  dome-like  hills  and  deep-cut 
shadows,  whose  stolid  front  quickly  dissolves. 
The  tufted  tops  of  a  sentinel  palm,  the  wide- 
spreading  arms  of  the  banian,  clumps  of 
green  and  yellow  bamboo,  and  the  fan-shaped 


In  the  Golden   Chersonese        301 

outlines  of  the  traveller's  palm  become  distin- 
guishable. As  the  great,  red,  tropical  sun 
rises  from  behind  the  encircling  hills,  the 
monotony  of  the  foliage  is  relieved  in  places 
by  objects  which  it  all  but  hid  from  view. 
The  granite  minaret  of  the  Mohammedan 
mosque,  the  carved  dome  of  a  Buddhist  tem- 
ple, the  slender  spire  of  an  English  cathe- 
dral, the  bold  projections  of  Government 
House,  and  the  wide,  white  sides  of  the 
Municipal  buildings  all  hold  the  eye. 

Then  a  maze  of  strange  shipping  screens 
the  nearing  shore  —  the  military  masts  and 
yards  of  British  and  Dutch  men-of-war,  the 
high-heeled,  shoe-like  lines  of  Chinese  junks, 
innumerable  Malay  and  Kling  sampans •,  and 
great,  unwieldy  Borneo  tonkangs. 

For  six  miles  along  the  wharves  and  for 
six  miles  back  into  the  island  extend  the 
municipal  limits  of  the  city.  Two  hundred 
thousand  people  live  within  these  limits ; 
while  outside,  over  the  rest  of  the  island 


302       Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

along  the  sea-coast,  in  fishing  villages,  and 
in  the  interior  on  plantations  of  tapioca  and 
pepper,  live  a  hundred  thousand  more.  Of 
these  three  hundred  thousand  over  one  hun- 
dred and  seventy  thousand  are  Chinese  and 
only  fifteen  hundred  are  Europeans. 

Grouped  about  Raffles  Square,  and  facing 
the  Bund,  are  the  great  English,  German,  and 
Chinese  houses  that  handle  the  three  hun- 
dred million  dollars'  worth  of  imports  and 
exports  that  pass  in  and  out  of  the  port 
yearly,  and  make  Singapore  one  of  the  most 
important  marts  of  the  commercial  world. 

Beyond,  and  back  from  the  Square,  is 
Tanglin,  or  the  suburbs,  where  the  govern- 
ment officials  and  the  heads  of  these  great 
firms  live  in  luxurious  bungalows,  surrounded 
by  a  swarm  of  retainers. 

Let  us  drive  from  Raffles  Square  through 
this  cosmopolitan  city  and  out  to  Tanglin. 
Beginning  at  Cavanagh  Bridge,  at  one  end 
of  which  stands  the  great  Singapore  Club 


In  the  Golden  Chersonese        303 

and  the  Post  Office,  is  the  ocean  esplanade, 
—  the  pride  of  the  city.  It  encloses  a 
public  playground  of  some  fifteen  acres, 
reclaimed  from  the  sea  at  an  expense  of 
over  two  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Every 
afternoon  when  the  heat  of  the  day  has 
fallen  from  150°  to  80°,  the  European  popu- 
lation meets  on  this  esplanade  park  to  play 
tennis,  cricket,  and  football,  and  to  prom- 
enade, gossip,  and  listen  to  the  music  of  the 
regimental  or  man-of-war  band. 

The  drive  from  the  sea,  up  Orchard 
Road  to  the  Botanic  Gardens,  carries  you 
by  all  the  diversified  life  of  the  city.  The 
Chinese  restaurant  is  omnipresent.  By  its 
side  sits  a  naked  little  bit  of  bronze,  with  a 
basket  of  sugar-cane  —  each  stick,  two  feet 
long,  cleaned  and  scraped,  ready  for  the 
hungry  and  thirsty  rickshaw  coolies,  who  have 
a  few  quarter  cents  with  which  to  gratify 
their  appetites.  On  every  veranda  and 
in  every  shady  corner  are  the  Kling  and 


304       Tales  of  the   Malayan   Coast 

Chinese  barbers.  They  carry  their  barber- 
shops in  a  kit  or  in  their  pockets,  and  the 
recipient  of  their  skill  finds  a  seat  as  best 
he  may.  The  barber  is  prepared  to  shave 
your  head,  your  face,  trim  your  hair,  braid 
your  queue,  and  pull  the  hairs  out  of  your 
nose  and  ears. 

There  is  no  special  quarter  for  separate 
trades.  Madras  tailor  shops  rub  shoulders 
with  Malay  blacksmith  shops,  while  Indian 
wash-houses  join  Manila  cigar  manufactories. 

Once  past  the  commercial  part  of  the 
ride,  the  great  bungalows  of  the  European 
and  Chinese  merchants  come  into  view.  The 
immediate  borders  of  the  road  itself  reveal 
nothing  but  a  dense  mass  of  tropical  ver- 
dure and  carefully  cut  hedges,  but  at  intervals 
there  is  a  wide  gap  in  the  hedge,  and  a 
road  leads  off  into  the  seeming  jungle.  At 
every  such  entrance  there  are  posts  of 
masonry,  and  a  plate  bearing  the  name  of 
the  manor  and  its  owner. 


In  the  Golden  Chersonese        305 

At  the  end  of  a  long  aisle  of  palms  and 
banians  you  see  a  bit  of  wide-spreading  ve- 
randa, and  the  full-open  doors  of  a  cool, 
black  interior.  Acres  of  closely  shaven  lawns, 
dotted  with  flowering  shrubs  of  the  brightest 
reds,  deepest  purples,  and  fieriest  solferinos, 
beds  of  rich-hued  foliage  plants,  and  cool, 
green  masses  of  ferns  meet  your  eye. 

Perhaps  you  spy  the  inevitable  tennis- 
court,  swarming  with  players,  and  bordered 
with  tables  covered  with  tea  and  sweets. 
Red-turbaned  Malay  kebuns,  or  gardeners, 
are  chasing  the  balls,  and  scrupulously  clean 
Chinese  "  boys "  are  passing  silently  among 
the  guests  with  trays  of  eatables. 

Dozens  of  gharries  dodge  past.  Hun- 
dreds of  rickshaws  pull  out  of  the  way. 

A  great  landau,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  thor- 
oughbred Australian  horses,  driven  by  a 
Malay  sycey  and  footman  in  full  livery,  and 
containing  a  bare-headed  Chinese  merchant, 
in  the  simple  flowing  garments  of  his  nation, 


306      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

dashes  along.  The  victoria  and  the  dog- 
cart of  the  European,  and  the  universal 
palanquin  of  the  Anglo-Indian,  form  a  per- 
fect maze  of  wheels. 

Suddenly  the  road  is  filled  with  a  long 
line  of  bullock-carts.  You  swing  your  little 
pony  sharply  to  one  side,  barely  escaping  the 
big  wooden  hub  of  the  first  cart.  The  syce 
springs  down  from  behind,  and  belabors  the 
native  bullock  driver,  who,  paying  no  atten- 
tion to  the  blows  rained  upon  his  naked 
back,  belabors  his  beasts  in  turn,  calling 
down  upon  their  ungainly  humps  the  curses 
of  his  religion.  The  scene  is  so  familiar 
that  only  a  "globe-trotter"  would  notice  it. 
Yet  to  me  there  is  nothing  more  truly  ar- 
tistic, or  more  typically  Indian  in  India, 
than  a  long  line  of  these  bullock-carts, 
laden  with  the  products  of  the  tropics,  — 
pineapples,  bananas,  gambier,  coffee,  —  urged 
on  by  a  straight,  graceful  driver,  winding 
slowly  along  a  palm  and  banian  shaded 


In  the  Golden  Chersonese        307 

road.  We  would  meet  such  processions  at 
every  turning,  but  never  without  recalling 
glorious  childish  pictures  of  the  Holy  Land 
and  Bible  scenery  as  we  painted  them, 
while  our  father  read  of  a  Sunday  morning 
out  of  the  old  "  Domestic  Bible/'  —  we 
children  pronounce  it  "  Dom-i-stick"  —  how 
the  Lord  said  unto  Moses,  "  Go  take 
twenty  fat  bullocks  and  offer  them  as  a 
sacrifice."  As  we  would  see  these  "  twenty 
fat  bullocks "  time  and  again,  I  confess, 
with  a  feeling  of  reluctance,  that  some  of 
the  gilt  and  rose  tint  was  rubbed  from  our 
childish  pictures,  and  that  a  realistic  artist 
drawing  from  the  life  before  him  would  not 
deck  out  the  patient  subject  in  quite  our 
extravagant  colors. 

The  color  of  the  Indian  bullock  varies. 
Some  are  a  dirty  white,  some  a  cream  color, 
some  almost  pink,  and  a  few  are  of  the 
darker  shades.  They  are  about  the  size  of 
our  cows,  seldom  as  large  as  a  full-grown 


308      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

ox.  Their  horns,  which  are  generally  tipped 
with  curiously  carved  knobs,  and  often 
painted  in  colors,  are  as  diversified  in  their 
styles  of  architecture  as  are  the  horns  of 
our  cattle,  though  they  are  more  apt  to  be 
straight  and  V-shaped.  Their  necks  are 
always  "bowed  to  the  yoke,"  to  once  more 
use  biblical  phraseology,  and  seem  almost  to 
invite  its  humiliating  clasp.  Above  their 
front  legs  is  the  mark  of  their  antiquity, 
the  great  clumsy,  flabby,  fleshy,  tawny 
hump,  always  swaying  from  side  to  side, 
keeping  time  to  every  plodding  step  of  its 
sleepy  owner.  This  seemingly  useless  moun- 
tain of  flesh  serves  as  a  cushion  against 
which  rests  a  yoke.  Not  the  natty  yoke  of 
our  rural  districts,  but  a  simple  pole,  with 
a  pin  of  wood  through  each  end,  to  ride  on 
the  outside  of  the  bullocks'  necks.  The 
burden  comes  against  the  projecting  hump 
when  the  team  pulls.  To  the  centre  of  this 
yoke  is  tied,  with  strong  withes  of  rattan, 


In  the  Golden  Chersonese        309 

the  pole  of  a  cart,  that  in  this  nineteenth 
century  is  generally  only  to  be  seen  in  na- 
tional museums,  preserved  as  a  relic  of  the 
first  steps  in  the  art  of  wagon  building. 
And  yet  as  a  cart  it  is  not  to  be  despised : 
all  the  heavy  traffic  of  the  colonies  is  done 
within  its  rude  board  sides.  It  has  two 
wheels,  with  heavy  square  spokes  that  are 
held  on  to  a  ponderous  wooden  axle-tree  by 
two  wooden  pins.  A  platform  bottom  rests 
on  the  axle-tree,  and  two  fence-like  sides. 

The  genie  of  the  cart,  the  hewer  of  wood 
and  drawer  of  water,  is  a  tall,  wiry,  bronze- 
colored  Hindu.  He  has  a  yard  of  white  gauze 
about  his  waist,  and  another  yard  twisted  up 
into  a  turban  on  his  head.  The  dictates  of 
fashion  do  not  interest  him.  He  does  not 
plod  along  year  in  and  year  out  behind  his 
team  for  the  pittance  of  sixty  cents  per  day, 
to  squander  on  the  outside  of  his  person. 
Not  he.  He  has  a  wife  up  near  Simla.  He 
hopes  to  go  back  next  year,  and  buy  a  bit 


310      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

of  ground  back  from  the  hill  on  the  Alla- 
badd  road  from  his  father-in-law,  old  Mo- 
hammed Mudd.  They  have  cold  weather 
up  in  Simla,  and  he  knows  of  a  certain 
gown  he  is  going  to  buy  of  a  Chinaman  in 
the  bazaar.  But  his  bullocks  lag,  and  he 
saws  on  the  gamooty  rope  that  is  attached 
to  their  noses,  and  beats  them  half  con- 
sciously with  his  rattan  whip.  Ofttimes  he 
will  stand  stark  upright  in  the  cart  for  a 
full  half-hour,  with  his  rattan  held  above  his 
head  in  a  threatening  attitude,  and  talk  on 
and  on  to  his  animals,  apotheosizing  their 
strength  and  patience,  telling  them  how  they 
are  sacred  to  Buddha,  how  they  are  the 
companions  of  man,  and  how  they  shall  have 
an  extra  cbupa  of  paddy  when  the  sun  goes 
down,  and  he  has  delivered  to  the  merchant 
sahib  on  the  quay  his  load  of  gambier;  or 
he  reproves  them  for  their  slowness  and 
want  of  interest,  and  threatens  them  with 
the  rod,  and  tells  them  to  look  how  he 


In  the  Golden  Chersonese        311 

holds  it  above  them.  If  in  the  course  of 
the  harangue  one  of  the  dumb  listeners 
pauses  to  pick  a  mouthful  of  young  lallang 
grass  by  the  roadside,  the  softly  crooning 
tones  give  place  to  a  shriek  of  denunciation. 

The  agile  Kling  springs  down  from  his 
improvised  pulpit,  and  rushes  at  the  offender, 
calls  him  the  offspring  of  a  pariah  dog, 
shows  him  the  rattan,  rubs  it  against  his 
nose,  threatening  to  cut  him  up  with  it  into 
small  pieces,  and  to  feed  the  pieces  to  the 
birds.  Then  he  discharges  a  volley  of  blows 
on  the  sleek  sides  of  the  offender,  that  seem 
to  have  little  more  effect  than  to  raise  a 
cloud  of  tiger  gnats,  and  to  cause  the  recip- 
ient to  bite  faster  at  the  tender  herbs. 

As  the  bullock-cart  that  has  blocked  our 
way,  and  at  the  same  time  inspired  this 
description,  shambles  along  down  the  shady 
road,  and  out  of  the  reach  of  the  syces 
arms,  the  driver  slips  quietly  up  the 
pole  of  the  cart  until  a  hand  rests  on 


312       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

either  hump,  and  commences  to  talk  in  a 
half-aggrieved,  half-caressing  tone  to  his 
team.  Our  syce  translates.  "  He  say  bul- 
lock very  bad  to  go  to  sleep  before  the 
palanquin  of  the  Heaven-Born.  If  they  no 
be  better  soon,  their  souls  will  no  become 
men.  He  say  he  sorry  that  they  make  the 
great  American  sahib  angry." 

The  singular  trio  passes  on,  the  driver 
praising  and  reprimanding  by  turns  in  the 
soft,  musical  tongue  of  his  people,  the  his- 
toric beasts  swinging  lazily  along,  regardless 
of  their  illustrious  past,  all  unconscious  of 
the  fact  that  their  names  are  embalmed  in 
sacred  writ  and  Indian  legend,  and  rounding 
a  corner  of  the  broad,  red  road,  are  lost  to 
view  amid  the  olive-green  shadows  of  a 
clump  of  gently  swaying  bamboo.  To  me, 
for  the  moment,  they  seem  to  disappear, 
like  phantoms,  into  the  mists  of  the  dim 
centuries,  from  out  of  which  my  imagination 
has  called  them  forth. 


In  the  Golden   Chersonese        313 

Soon  you  are  at  the  wide-open  gates  of 
the  Botanic  Garden.  A  perfect  riot  of 
strange  tropical  foliage  bursts  upon  the  view. 
The  clean,  red  road  winds  about  and  among 
avenues  of  palms,  waringhans,  dark  green 
mangosteens,  casuarinas,  and  the  sweet-smell- 
ing hibiscus,  all  alike  covered  with  a  hun- 
dred different  parasitic  vines  and  ferns. 
Artificial  lakes  and  moats  are  filled  with  the 
giant  pods  of  the  superb  Victoria  regia,  and 
the  flesh-colored  cups  of  the  lotus. 

In  the  translucent  green  twilight  of  the 
flower-houses  a  hundred  varieties  of  the 
costly  orchids  thrive  —  not  costly  here.  A 
shipload  can  be  bought  of  the  natives  for 
three  cents  apiece. 

Walks  carry  you  out  into  the  dim  aisles 
of  the  native  jungle.  Monkeys,  surprised  at 
your  footsteps,  spring  from  limb  to  limb, 
and  swing,  chattering,  out  of  sight  in  a 
mass  of  rubber-vines.  Splendid  macadamized 
roads,  that  are  kept  in  perfect  repair  by  a 


314      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

force  of  naked  Hindus  and  an  iron  roller 
drawn  by  six  unwilling,  hump-backed  bul- 
locks, spread  out  over  the  island  in  every 
direction.  Leave  one  at  any  point  outside 
the  town,  and  plunge  into  the  bordering 
jungle,  and  you  are  liable  to  meet  a  tiger 
or  a  herd  of  wild  boar.  The  tigers  swim 
across  the  straits  from  the  mainland,  and 
occasionally  strike  down  a  Chinaman.  It  is 
said  that  if  a  Chinaman,  a  Malay,  and  a 
European  are  passing  side  by  side  through 
a  field,  the  tiger  will  pick  out  the  Chinaman 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  other  two. 

Acres  upon  acres  of  pineapples  stretch 
away  on  either  hand,  while  patches  of  bana- 
nas and  farms  of  coffee  are  interspersed  with 
spice  trees  and  sago  swamps. 

This  road  system  is  the  secret  of  the  de- 
velopment of  the  agriculture,  and  one  of  the 
secrets  of  the  rapid  growth  of  the  great 
English  colonies.  Were  it  not  for  the  great 
black  python,  that  lies  sleeping  in  the  road 


In  the  Golden   Chersonese        315 

in  front  of  you,  or  the  green  iguana  that 
hangs  in  a  timboso  tree  over  your  head,  or 
a  naked  runner  pulling  a  rickshaw,  you  might 
think  you  were  travelling  the  wide  asphaltum 
streets  of  Washington. 

The  home  of  the  European  in  Singapore 
is  peculiar  to  the  country.  The  parks  about 
their  great  bungalows  are  small  copies  of 
the  Botanic  Gardens  —  filled  with  all  that  is 
beautiful  in  the  flora  of  the  East.  From 
five  to  twenty  servants  alone  are  kept  to 
look  after  its  walks  and  hedges  and  lawns. 

A  bungalow  proper  may  consist  of  but 
a  half-dozen  rooms,  and  yet  look  like  a  vast 
manor  house.  It  is  the  generous  sweep  of 
the  verandas  running  completely  around  the 
house  that  lends  this  impression.  Behind  its 
bamboo  chicks  you  retire  on  your  return 
from  the  office.  The  Chinese  "  boy "  takes 
your  pipe-clayed  shoes  and  cork  helmet, 
and  brings  a  pair  of  heelless  grass  slippers. 
If  a  friend  drop  in,  you  never  think  of  in- 


316       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

viting  him  into  your  richly  furnished  draw- 
ing-room, but  motion  him  to  a  long  rattan 
chair,  call  "  Boy,  bring  the  master  a  cup  of 
tea,"  and  pass  a  box  of  Manila  cigars. 

Bungalows  are  one  story  high,  with  a  roof 
of  palm  thatch,  and  are  raised  above  the 
ground  from  two  to  five  feet  by  brick  pil- 
lars, leaving  an  open  space  for  light  and  air 
beneath.  Nearly  every  day  it  rains  for  an 
hour  in  torrents.  The  hot,  steaming  earth 
'absorbs  the  water,  and  the  fierce  equatorial 
sun  evaporates  it,  only  to  return  it  in  a  like 
shower  the  next  day.  So  every  precaution 
must  be  taken  against  dampness  and  dry- 
rot. 

In  every  well-ordered  bungalow  seven  to 
nine  servants  are  an  absolute  necessity,  while 
three  others  are  usually  added  from  time  to 
time.  The  five  elements,  if  I  may  so  style 
them,  are  the  "  boy,"  or  boys,  the  cook  and 
his  helpers,  the  horseman,  the  water-carrier, 
the  gardener,  and  the  maid.  The  adjuncts 


In  the  Golden   Chersonese        317 

are  the  barber,  the  washman,  the  tailor,  and 
the  watchman.  In  a  mild  way,  you  are 
at  the  mercy  of  these  servants.  Their  du- 
ties are  fixed  by  caste,  one  never  intruding 
on  the  work  of  another.  You  must  have 
all  or  none.  Still  this  is  no  hardship.  Only 
newcomers  ever  think  of  trying  to  econo- 
mize on  servant  bills.  The  record  of  the 
thermometer  is  too  appalling,  and  you 
speedily  become  too  dependent  on  their  at- 
tentions. 

The  Chinese  "  boy "  —  he  is  always  the 
"  boy"  until  he  dies  —  is  the  presiding  genius 
of  the  house.  He  it  is  who  brings  your  tea 
and  fruit  to  the  bedside  at  6  A.M.,  and  lays  out 
your  evening  suit  ready  for  dinner,  puts  your 
studs  in  your  clean  shirt,  brings  your  slippers, 
knows  where  each  individual  article  of  your 
wardrobe  is  kept,  and,  in  fact,  thinks  of  a 
hundred  and  one  little  comforts  you  would 
never  have  known  of,  had  he  not  discovered 
them.  He  is  your  valet  de  cbambre,  your 


318      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

butler,  your  steward  and  your  general  agent, 
your  interpreter  and  your  directory.  He 
controls  the  other  servants  with  a  rod  of 
iron,  but  bows  to  the  earth  before  the  mem, 
or  the  master.  For  his  ten  Mexican  dollars 
a  month  he  takes  all  the  burdens  from  your 
shoulders,  and  stands  between  you  and  the 
rude  outside  polyglot  world.  He  is  a  hero- 
worshipper,  and  if  you  are  a  Tuan  Besar  — 
great  man  —  he  will  double  his  attentions, 
and  spread  your  fame  far  and  wide  among 
his  brother  majordomos. 

But  a  description  of  each  member  of  the 
m'enage  and  their  duties  would  be  in  a  large 
measure  the  description  of  the  odd,  complex 
life  of  the  East. 

The  growth  of  Singapore  since  its  found- 
ing by  Sir  Stamford  Raffles  in  1819  would 
do  honor  to  the  growth  of  one  of  our 
Western  cities. 

Within  three  months  after  the  purchase 
of  the  ground  from  the  Sultan  of  Johore, 


In  the  Golden   Chersonese        319 

Raffles  wrote  to  Lord  Warren  Hastings, 
the  Governor:  — 

"  We  have  a  growing  colony  of  nearly 
five  thousand  souls,"  and  a  little  later  one 
of  his  successors  wrote  apologetically  to  Lord 
Auckland,  discussing  some  project  relating  to 
Singapore  finance  :  — 

"  These  details  may  appear  to  your  Lord- 
ship petty,  but  then  everything  connected 
with  these  settlements  is  petty,  except  their 
annual  surplus  cost  to  the  Government  of 
India." 

To-day  the  city  and  colony  has  a  popula- 
tion of  over  one  million,  and  a  revenue  of 
five  million  dollars  —  a  magnificent  monu- 
ment to  its  founder's  foresight ! 

From  a  commercial  and  strategic  stand- 
point, the  site  of  the  city  is  unassailable. 
When  the  English  and  the  Dutch  divided 
the  East  Indies  by  drawing  a  line  through 
the  Straits  of  Malacca,  —  the  English  to  hold 
all  north,  the  Dutch  all  south,  —  the  crafty 


320      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

Dutchman  smiled  benignly,  with  one  finger 
in  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and  went  back  to 
his  coffee  and  tobacco  trading  in  the  beauti- 
ful islands  of  Java  and  Sumatra,  pitying  the 
ignorance  of  the  Englishman,  who  was  con- 
tented with  the  swampy  jungles  of  an  un- 
known and  savage  neck  of  land,  little  think- 
ing that  inside  of  a  half  century  all  his 
products  would  come  to  this  same  despised 
district  for  a  market,  while  his  own  colonies 
would  retrograde  and  gradually  pass  into  the 
hands  of  the  English. 

Singapore  is  one  of  the  great  cities  of  the 
world,  the  centre  of  all  the  East  Indian 
commerce,  the  key  of  southern  Asia,  and 
one  of  the  massive  links  in  the  armored 
chain  with  which  Great  Britain  encircles  the 
globe. 


A   Fight  with   Illanum   Pirates 
of  a  ganfeee 


THE  Daily  Straits  Times  on  the  desk 
before  me  contained  a  vivid  word  pic- 
ture of  the  capture  of  the  British  steamship 
Namoa  by  three  hundred  Chinese  pirates, 
the  guns  of  Hong  Kong  almost  within 
sight,  and  the  year  of  our  Lord  1890  just 
drawing  to  a  close.  The  report  seemed  in- 
credible. 

I  pushed  the  paper  across  the  table  to  the 
grizzled  old  captain  of  the  Bunker  Hill  and 
continued  my  examination  of  the  accounts 
of  a  half-dozen  sailors  of  whom  he  was  in- 
tent on  getting  rid.  By  the  time  I  had 
signed  the  last  discharge  and  affixed  the 
consular  seal  he  had  finished  the  article 
and  put  it  aside  with  a  contemptuous 

3" 


322       Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

"  Humph ! "  expressive  of  his  opinion  of 
the  valor  of  the  crew  and  officers.  I  could 
see  that  he  was  anxious  for  me  to  give  him 
my  attention  while  he  related  one  of  those 
long-drawn-out  stones  of  perhaps  a  like  per- 
sonal experience.  I  knew  the  symptoms  and 
somtimes  took  occasion  to  escape,  if  business 
or  inclination  made  me  forego  the  pleasure. 
To-day  I  was  in  a  mood  to  humor  him. 

There  is  always  something  deliciously  re- 
freshing in  a  sailor's  yarn.  I  have  listened 
to  hundreds  in  the  course  of  my  consular 
career,  and  have  yet  to  find  one  that  is  dull 
or  prosy.  They  all  bear  the  imprint  of  truth, 
perhaps  a  trifle  overdrawn,  but  nevertheless 
sparkling  with  the  salt  of  the  sea  and  redo- 
lent of  the  romance  of  strange  people  and 
distant  lands.  In  listening,  one  becomes 
almost  dizzy  at  the  rapidity  with  which  the 
scene  and  personnel  change.  The  icebergs 
and  the  aurora  borealis  of  the  Arctic  give 
place  to  the  torrid  waters  and  the  Southern 


A  Fight  with  Illanum   Pirates     323 

Cross  of  the  South  Pacific.  A  volcanic 
island,  an  Arabian  desert,  a  tropical  jungle, 
and  the  breadth  and  width  of  the  ocean 
serve  as  the  theatre,  while  a  Fiji  Islander, 
an  Eskimo,  and  a  turbaned  Arab  are  actors 
in  a  half-hour's  tale.  In  interest  they  rival 
Verne,  Kingston,  or  Marryat.  All  they  lack 
is  skilled  hands  to  dress  them  in  proper  lan- 
guage. 

I 

THE  CAPTAIN'S  YARN 

THE  captain  helped  himself  to  one  of  my 
manilas  and  began  :  — 

I've  nothing  to  say  about  the  fate  of  the 
poor  fellows  on  the  Namoa,  seeing  the  cap- 
tain was  killed  at  the  first  fire,  but  it  looks 
to  me  like  a  case  of  carelessness  which  was 
almost  criminal.  The  idea  of  allowing  three 
hundred  Chinese  to  come  aboard  as  passen- 
gers without  searching  them  for  arms.  Why  ! 
it  is  an  open  bid  to  pirates.  Goes  to  show 


324      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

pretty  plain  that  these  seas  are  not  cleared 
of  pirates.  Sailing  ships  nowadays  think  they 
can  go  anywhere  without  a  pound  of  powder 
or  an  old  cutlass  aboard,  just  because  there 
is  an  English  or  Dutch  man-of-war  within  a 
hundred  miles.  I  don't  know  what  we'd 
have  done  when  I  first  traded  among  these 
islands  without  a  good  brass  swivel  and  a 
stock  of  percussion-cap  muskets. 

Let  me  see;  it  was  in  '58,  I  was  cabin 
boy  on  the  ship  Bangor.  Captain  Howe,  hale 
old  fellow  from  Maine,  had  his  two  little 
boys  aboard.  They  are  merchants  now  in 
Boston.  I've  been  sailing  for  them  on  the 
Elmira  ever  since.  We  were  trading  along 
the  coast  of  Borneo.  Those  were  great  days 
for  trading  in  spite  of  the  pirates.  That  was 
long  before  iron  steamers  sent  our  good 
oaken  ships  to  rot  in  the  dockyards  of 
Maine.  Why,  in  those  days  you  could  see 
a  half-dozen  of  our  snug  little  crafts  in  any 
port  of  the  world,  and  I've  seen  more 


A  Fight  with  Illanum  Pirates     325 

American  flags  in  this  very  harbor  of  Singa- 
pore than  of  any  other  nation.  We  had 
come  into  Singapore  with  a  shipload  of  ice 
(no  scientific  ice  factories  then),  and  had 
gone  along  the  coast  of  Java  and  Borneo  to 
load  with  coffee,  rubber,  and  spices,  for  a 
return  voyage.  We  were  just  off  Kuching, 
the  capital  of  Sarawak,  and  about  loaded, 
when  the  captain  heard  that  gold  had  been 
discovered  somewhere  up  near  the  head  of 
the  Rejang.  The  captain  was  an  adven- 
turous old  salt,  and  decided  to  test  the 
truth  of  the  story ;  so,  taking  the  long-boat 
and  ten  men,  he  pulled  up  the  Sarawak 
River  to  Kuching  and  got  permission  of 
Rajah  Brooke  to  go  up  the  Rejang  on  a 
hunting  expedition.  The  Rajah  was  cour- 
teous, but  tried  to  dissuade  us  from  the 
undertaking  by  relating  that  several  bands 
of  Dyaks  had  been  out  on  head-hunting 
expeditions  of  late,  and  that  the  mouth  of 
the  Rejang  was  infested  by  Illanum  pirates. 


326      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

The  captain  only  laughed,  and  jokingly  told 
Sir  James  that  if  the  game  proved  scarce  he 
might  come  back  and  claim  the  prize  money 
on  a  boat-load  of  pirate  heads. 

We  started  at  once,  —  for  the  captain  let 
me  go ;  we  rowed  some  sixty  miles  along 
the  coast  to  the  mouth  of  the  Rejang; 
then  for  four  days  we  pulled  up  its  snake- 
like  course.  It  was  my  first  bit  of  adven- 
ture, and  everything  was  strange  and  new. 
The  river's  course  was  like  a  great  tunnel 
into  the  dense  black  jungle.  On  each  side 
and  above  we  were  completely  walled  in  by 
an  impenetrable  growth  of  great  tropical  trees 
and  the  iron-like  vines  of  the  rubber.  The 
sun  for  a  few  hours  each  day  came  in  broken 
shafts  down  through  the  foliage,  and  exposed 
the  black  back  of  a  crocodile,  or  the  green 
sides  of  an  iguana.  Troops  of  monkeys 
swung  and  chattered  in  the  branches  above, 
and  at  intervals  a  grove  of  cocoanut  broke 
the  monotony  of  the  scenery.  Among  them 


A  Fight  with  Illanum  Pirates     327 

we  would  land  and  rest  for  the  day  or 
night,  eat  of  their  juicy  fruit,  and  go  on 
short  excursions  for  game.  A  roasted  mon- 
key, some  baked  yams,  and  a  delicious  rice 
curry  made  up  a  royal  bill  of  fare,  and  as 
the  odor  of  our  tobacco  mixed  with  the 
breathing  perfume  of  the  jungle,  I  would 
fall  asleep  listening  to  sea-yarns  that  some- 
times ran  back  to  the  War  of  1812. 

II 

AT  the  end  of  the  fifth  day  we  arrived 
at  the  head  of  the  Rejang.  Here  the  river 
broke  up  into  a  dozen  small  streams  and 
a  swamp.  A  stockade  had  been  erected, 
and  the  Rajah  had  stationed  a  small  com- 
pany of  native  soldiers  under  an  English 
officer  to  keep  the  head-hunting  Dyaks  in 
check.  I  don't  remember  what  our  captain 
found  out  in  regard  to  the  gold  fields,  at 
least  it  was  not  encouraging ;  for  he  gave 
up  the  search  and  joined  the  English  lieu- 


328      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

tenant  in  a  grand  deer-hunt  that  lasted  for 
five  days,  and  then  started  back  accom- 
panied by  two  native  soldiers  bearing  de- 
spatches to  the  Rajah. 

It  was  easy  running  down  the  river  with 
the  current.  One  man  in  each  end  of  the 
boat  kept  it  off  roots,  sunken  logs,  and 
crocodiles,  and  the  rest  of  us  spent  the  . 
time  as  best  our  cramped  space  allowed. 
Twice  we  detected  the  black,  ugly  face  of 
a  Dyak  peering  from  out  the  jungle.  The 
men  were  for  hunting  them  down  for  the 
price  on  their  heads,  but  the  captain  said 
he  never  killed  a  human  being  except  in 
self-defence,  and  that  if  the  Rajah  wanted 
to  get  rid  of  the  savages  he  had  better 
give  the  contract  to  a  Mississippi  slave- 
trader.  Secretly,  I  was  longing  for  some 
kind  of  excitement,  and  was  hoping  that 
the  men's  clamorous  talk  would  have  some 
effect.  I  never  doubted  our  ability  to  raid 
a  Dyak  village  and  kill  the  head-hunters 


A  Fight  with  Illanum  Pirates     329 

and  carry  off  the  beautiful  maidens.  I  could 
not  see  why  a  parcel  of  blacks  should  be 
such  a  terror  to  the  good  Rajah,  when  Big 
Tom  said  he  could  easily  handle  a  dozen, 
and  flattered  me  by  saying  that  such  a 
brawny  lad  as  I  ought  to  take  care  of  two 
at  least. 

In  the  course  of  three  days  we  reached 
the  mouth  of  the  river,  and  prepared  the 
sail  for  the  trip  across  the  bay  to  the  Bangor. 
Just  as  everything  was  in  readiness,  one 
of  those  peculiar  and  rapid  changes  in  the 
weather,  that  are  so  common  here  in  the 
tropics  near  the  equator,  took  place.  A 
great  blue-black  cloud,  looking  like  an  im- 
mense cartridge,  came  up  from  the  west. 
Through  it  played  vivid  flashes  of  light- 
ning, and  around  it  was  a  red  haze.  "  A 
nasty  animal,"  I  heard  the  bo's'n  tell  the 
captain,  and  yet  I  was  foolishly  delighted 
when  they  decided  to  risk  a  blow  and  put 
out  to  sea.  The  sky  on  all  sides  grew 


330      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

darker  from  hour  to  hour.  A  smell  of 
sulphur  came  to  our  nostrils.  It  was  op- 
pressively hot ;  not  a  breath  of  wind  was 
stirring.  The  sail  flapped  uselessly  against 
the  mast,  and  the  men  labored  at  the 
oars,  while  streams  of  sweat  ran  from  their 
bodies. 

The  captain  had  just  taken  down  the 
mast,  when,  without  a  moment's  warning, 
the  gale  struck  us  and  the  boat  half  filled 
with  water.  We  managed  to  head  it  with 
the  wind,  and  were  soon  driving  with  the 
rapidity  of  a  cannon-ball  over  the  boiling 
and  surging  waters.  It  was  a  fearful  gale ; 
we  blew  for  hours  before  it,  ofttimes  in 
danger  of  a  volcanic  reef,  again  almost  sunk 
by  a  giant  wave.  I  baled  until  I  was  com- 
pletely exhausted.  But  the  long-boat  was  a 
stanch  little  craft,  and  there  were  plenty  of 
men  to  manage  it,  so  as  long  as  we  could 
keep  her  before  the  wind,  the  captain  felt  no 
great  anxiety  as  to  our  safety. 


A  Fight  with  Illanum  Pirates     331 

III 

AT  about  six  bells  in  the  afternoon,  the 
wind  fell  away,  and  the  rain  came  down  in 
torrents,  leaving  us  to  pitch  about  on  the 
rapidly  decreasing  waves,  wet  to  the  skin 
and  unequal  to  another  effort.  We  were 
within  a  mile  of  a  rocky  island  that  rose  like 
a  half-ruined  castle  from  the  ocean.  The 
Dyak  soldiers  called  it  Satang  Island,  and  I 
have  sailed  past  it  many  a  time  since. 
Without  waiting  for  the  word,  we  rowed  to 
it  and  around  it,  before  we  found  a  suitable 
beach  on  which  to  land.  One  end  of  the 
island  rose  precipitous  and  sheer  above  the 
beach  a  hundred  feet,  and  ended  in  a  barren 
plateau  of  some  two  dozen  acres.  The  re- 
mainder comprised  some  hundred  acres  of 
sand  and  rocks,  on  which  were  half  a  dozen 
cocoanut  trees  and  a  few  yams.  Along  the 
beach  we  found  a  large  number  of  turtles' 
eggs. 


332       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

The  captain,  remembering  the  Rajah's 
caution  in  regard  to  pirates,  decided  not  to 
make  a  light,  but  we  were  wet  and  hungry 
and  overcame  his  scruples,  and  soon  had  a 
huge  fire  and  a  savory  repast  of  coffee, 
turtles*  eggs,  and  yams.  At  midnight  it  was 
extinguished,  and  a  watch  stationed  on  top 
of  the  plateau.  Toward  morning  I  clam- 
bered grumblingly  up  the  narrow,  almost 
perpendicular  sides  of  the  rift  that  cut  into 
the  rocky  watch-tower.  I  did  not  believe 
in  pirates  and  was  willing  to  take  my  chances 
in  sleep.  I  paced  back  and  forth,  inhaling 
deep  breaths  of  the  rich  tropical  air ;  below 
me  the  waves  beat  in  ripples  against  the 
rugged  beach,  casting  off  from  time  to  time 
little  flashes  of  phosphorescent  light,  and 
mirroring  in  their  depths  the  hardly  distin- 
guishable outline  of  the  Southern  Cross. 
The  salt  smell  of  the  sea  was  tinged  with 
the  spice-laden  air  of  the  near  coast. 
Drowsiness  came  over  me.  I  picked  up  a 


A   Fight  with   Illanum   Pirates     333 

musket  and  paced  around  the  little  plateau. 
The  moon  had  but  just  reached  its  zenith, 
making  all  objects  easily  discernible.  The 
smooth  storm-swept  space  before  me  re- 
flected back  its  rays  like  a  well-scrubbed 
quarter-deck ;  below  were  the  dark  outlines 
of  my  sleeping  mates.  I  could  hear  the 
light  wind  rustling  through  the  branches  of 
the  casuarina  trees  that  fringed  the  shore. 
I  paused  and  looked  over  the  sea.  Like  a 
charge  of  electricity  a  curious  sensation  of 
fear  shot  through  me.  Then  an  intimation 
that  some  object  had  flashed  between  me 
and  the  moon.  I  rubbed  my  eyes  and 
gazed  in  the  air  above,  expecting  to  see  a 
night  bird  or  a  bat.  Then  the  same  pecul- 
iar sensation  came  over  me  again,  and  I 
looked  down  in  the  water  below  just  in  time 
to  see  the  long,  keen,  knife-like  outline  of 
a  pirate  prau  glide  as  noiselessly  as  a  shadow 
from  a  passing  cloud  into  the  gloom  of  the 
island.  Its  great,  wide-spreading,  dark  red 


334      Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

sails  were  set  full  to  the  wind,  and  hanging 
over  its  sides  by  ropes  were  a  dozen  naked 
Illanums,  guiding  the  sensitive  craft  almost 
like  a  thing  of  life.  Within  the  prau  were 
two  dozen  fighting  men,  armed  with  their 
alligator  hide  buckler,  long,  steel-tipped 
spear,  and  ugly,  snake-like  kris.  A  third 
prau  followed  in  the  wake  of  the  other  two, 
and  all  three  were  lost  in  the  blackness  of 
the  overhanging  cliffs. 

With  as  little  noise  as  possible,  I  ran 
across  the  plain  and  warned  my  companion, 
then  picked  my  way  silently  down  the  defile 
to  the  camp.  The  captain  responded  to 
my  touch  and  was  up  in  an  instant.  The 
men  were  awakened  and  the  news  whispered 
from  one  to  another.  Gathering  up  what 
food  and  utensils  we  possessed,  we  hurried 
to  get  on  top  of  the  plateau  before  our 
exact  whereabouts  became  known.  The 
captain  hoped  that  when  they  discovered 


A  Fight  with  Illanum  Pirates     335 

we  were  well  fortified  and  there  was  no 
wreck  to  pillage,  they  would  withdraw  with- 
out giving  battle.  They  had  landed  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  island  from  our  boat 
and  might  leave  it  undisturbed.  We  felt 
reasonably  safe  in  our  fortress  from  attacks. 
There  were  but  two  breaks  in  its  precipitous 
sides,  each  a  narrow  defile  filled  with  loose 
boulders  that  could  easily  be  detached  and 
sent  thundering  down  on  an  assailant's  head. 
On  the  other  hand,  our  shortness  of  food  and 
water  made  us  singularly  weak  in  case  of  siege. 
But  we  hoped  for  the  best.  Two  men  were 
posted  at  each  defile,  and  as  nothing  was 
heard  for  an  hour,  most  of  us  fell  asleep. 

IV 

IT  was  just  dawn,  when  we  were  awakened 
by  the  report  of  two  muskets  and  the  ter- 
rific crashing  of  a  great  boulder,  followed  by 
groans  and  yells.  With  one  accord  we 
rushed  to  the  head  of  the  canon.  The 


336       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

Illanums,  naked,  with  the  exception  of 
party-colored  sarongs  around  their  waists, 
with  their  bucklers  on  their  left  arms  and 
their  gleaming  knives  strapped  to  their 
right  wrists,  were  mounting  on  each  other's 
shoulders,  forcing  a  way  up  the  precipitous 
defile,  unmindful  of  the  madly  descending 
rocks  that  had  crushed  and  maimed  more 
than  one  of  their  number.  They  were  fine, 
powerful  fellows,  with  a  reddish  brown  skin 
that  shone  like  polished  ebony.  Their  hair 
was  shorn  close  to  their  heads ;  they  had 
high  cheek  bones,  flat  noses,  jryr^-stained 
lips,  and  bloodshot  eyes.  In  their  move- 
ments they  were  as  lithe  and  supple  as  a 
tiger,  and  commanded  our  admiration  while 
they  made  us  shudder.  We  knew  that  they 
neither  give  nor  take  quarter,  and  for  years 
had  terrorized  the  entire  Bornean  coast. 

We  were  ready  to  fire,  but  a  gesture  from 
the  captain  restrained  us  ;  our  ammunition 
was  low,  and  he  wished  to  save  it  until  we 


A  Fight  with  Illanum  Pirates     337 

actually  needed  it.  By  our  united  efforts 
we  pried  off  two  of  the  volcanic  rocks, 
which,  with  a  great  leap,  disappeared  into 
the  darkness  below,  oftentimes  appearing 
for  an  instant  before  rushing  to  the  sea. 
Every  time  an  Illanum  fell  we  gave  a  hearty 
American  cheer,  which  was  answered  by  sav- 
age yells.  Still  they  fought  on  and  up,  mak- 
ing little  headway.  We  were  gradually 
relaxing  our  efforts,  thinking  that  they  were 
sick  of  the  affair,  when  the  report  of  a 
musket  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  island 
called  our  attention  to  the  boYn,  who 
had  been  detailed  to  guard  the  other  defile. 

The  boVn  and  one  native  soldier  were 
fighting  hand  to  hand  with  a  dozen 
pirates  who  were  forcing  their  way  up  the 
edge  of  the  cliff.  Half  of  the  men  dashed 
to  their  relief  just  in  time  to  see  the  soldier 
go  over  the  precipice  locked  in  the  arms  of 
a  giant  Illanum.  One  volley  from  our  mus- 
kets settled  the  hopes  of  the  invaders. 


338       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

Our  little  party  was  divided,  and  we  were 
outnumbered  ten  to  one.  One  of  the  sail- 
ors in  dislodging  a  boulder  lost  his  footing 
and  went  crashing  down  with  it  amid  the 
derisive  yells  of  the  pirates.  Suddenly  the 
conflict  ceased  and  the  pirates  withdrew.  In 
a  short  time  we  could  see  them  building  a 
number  of  small  fires  along  the  beach,  and 
the  aroma  of  rice  curry  came  up  to  us  with 
the  breeze.  The  captain,  I  could  see,  was 
anxious,  although  my  boyish  feelings  did 
not  go  beyond  a  sense  of  intoxicating  excite- 
ment. I  heard  him  say  that  nothing  but  a 
storm  or  a  ship  could  save  us  in  case  we 
were  besieged ;  that  it  was  better  to  have 
the  fight  out  at  once  and  die  with  our  arms 
in  our  hands  than  to  starve  to  death. 

Giving  each  a  small  portion  of  ship  bis- 
cuit and  a  taste  of  water,  he  enjoined  on  each 
a  careful  watchfulness  and  a  provident  use 
of  our  small  stock  of  provisions. 

I  took  mine  in   my  hand  and  walked   out 


A  Fight  with  Illanum  Pirates     339 

on  the  edge  of  the  cliff  somewhat  sobered. 
Directly  below  me  were  the  pirates,  and  at 
my  feet  I  noticed  a  fragment  of  rock  that  I 
thought  I  could  loosen.  Putting  down  my 
food,  I  foolishly  picked  up  a  piece  of  timber 
which  I  used  as  a  lever,  when,  without  warn- 
ing, the  mass  broke  away,  and  with  a  tre- 
mendous bound  went  crashing  down  into 
the  very  midst  of  the  pirates,  scattering  them 
right  and  left,  and  ended  by  crushing  one  of 
the  praus  that  was  drawn  up  on  the  sand. 

In  an  instant  the  quiet  beach  was  a  scene 
of  the  wildest  confusion.  A  surging,  crowd- 
ing mass  of  pirates  with  their  krises  between 
their  teeth  dashed  up  the  canon,  intent  on 
avenging  their  loss.  I  dropped  my  lever 
and  rushed  back  to  the  men,  nearly  fright- 
ened to  death  at  the  result  of  my  temerity. 
There  was  no  time  for  boulders ;  the  men 
reached  the  brink  of  the  defile  just  in  time 
to  welcome  the  assailants  with  a  broadside. 
Their  lines  wavered,  but  fresh  men  took  the 


340      Tales  of  the    Malayan   Coast 

places  of  the  fallen,  and  they  pushed  on. 
Another  volley  from  our  guns,  and  the  dead 
and  wounded  encumbered  the  progress  of 
the  living.  A  shower  of  stones  and  timbers 
gave  us  the  fight,  and  they  withdrew  with 
savage  yells  to  open  the  siege  once  more. 
Only  one  of  our  men  had  been  wounded, — 
he  by  an  arrow  from  a  blowpipe. 


ALL  that  night  we  kept  watch.  The  next 
morning  we  were  once  more  attacked,  but 
successfully  defended  ourselves  with  boulders 
and  our  cutlasses.  Yet  one  swarthy  pirate 
succeeded  in  catching  the  leg  of  the  remain- 
ing native  soldier  and  bearing  him  away  with 
them.  With  cessation  of  hostilities,  we 
searched  the  top  of  the  island  for  food  and 
water.  At  one  side  of  the  tableland  there 
was  a  break  in  its  surface  and  a  bench  of 
some  dozen  acres  lay  perhaps  twenty  feet 
below  our  retreat.  We  cautiously  worked 


A  Fight  with  Illanum   Pirates     341 

our  way  down  to  this  portion,  and  there  to 
our  delight  found  a  number  of  fan-shaped 
traveller's  palms  and  monkey-cups  full  of 
sweet  water,  which  with  two  wild  sago  palms 
we  calculated  would  keep  us  alive  a  few  days 
at  all  events. 

We  were  much  encouraged  at  this  discov- 
ery, and  that  night  collected  a  lot  of  brush 
from  the  lower  plain  and  lit  a  big  fire  on  the 
most  exposed  part  of  the  rocks.  We  did 
not  care  if  it  brought  a  thousand  more  pirates 
as  long  as  it  attracted  the  attention  of  a  pass- 
ing ship.  Two  good  nine-pounders  would 
soon  send  our  foes  in  all  directions.  We 
relieved  each  other  in  watching  during  the 
night,  and  by  sunrise  we  were  all  completely 
worn  out.  The  third  day  was  one  of  weari- 
ness and  thirst  under  the  burning  rays  of 
the  tropical  sun.  That  day  we  ate  the  last 
of  our  ship  biscuit  and  were  reduced  to  a 
few  drops  of  water  each.  Starvation  was 
staring  us  in  the  face.  There  was  but  one 


342       Tales  of  the  Malayan   Coast 

alternative,  and  that  was  to  descend  and  make 
a  fight  for  our  boat  on  the  beach.  The 
boYn  volunteered  with  three  men  to  descend 
the  defile  and  reconnoitre.  Armed  only  with 
their  cutlasses  and  a  short  axe,  they  worked 
their  way  carefully  down  in  the  shadow  of 
the  rocks,  while  we  kept  watch  above. 

All  was  quiet  for  a  time ;  then  there  arose 
a  tumult  of  cries,  oaths,  and  yells.  The 
captain  gave  the  order,  and  pell-mell  down 
the  rift  we  clambered,  some  dropping  their 
muskets  in  their  hurried  descent,  one  of  which 
exploded  in  its  fall.  The  bo's'n  had  found 
the  beach  and  our  boat  guarded  by  six  pirates, 
who  were  asleep.  Four  of  these  they  suc- 
ceeded in  throttling.  We  pushed  the  boat 
into  the  surf,  expecting  every  moment  to 
see  one  of  the  praus  glide  around  the  project- 
ing reef  that  separated  the  two  inlets.  We 
could  plainly  hear  their  cries  and  yells  as 
they  discovered  our  escape,  and  with  a  "  heigh- 
ho-heigh ! "  our  long-boat  shot  out  into  the 


A  Fight  with  Illanum  Pirates     343 

placid  ocean,  sending  up  a  shower  of  phos- 
phorescent bubbles.  We  bent  our  backs  to 
the  oars  as  only  a  question  of  life  or  death 
can  make  one.  With  each  stroke  the  boat 
seemed  almost  to  lift  itself  out  of  the  water. 
Almost  at  the  same  time  a  long  dark  line, 
filled  with  moving  objects,  dashed  out  from 
the  shadow  of  the  cliffs,  hardly  a  hundred 
yards  away. 

It  was  a  glorious  race  over  the  dim  waters 
of  that  tropical  sea.  I  as  a  boy  could  not 
realize  what  capture  meant  at  the  hands  of 
our  cruel  pursuers.  My  heart  beat  high,  and 
I  felt  equal  to  a  dozen  Illanums.  My 
thoughts  travelled  back  to  New  England  in 
the  midst  of  the  excitement.  I  saw  myself 
before  the  open  arch  fire  in  a  low-roofed  old 
house,  that  for  a  century  had  withstood  the 
fiercest  gales  on  the  old  Maine  coast,  and 
from  whose  doors  had  gone  forth  three  gen- 
erations of  sea-captains.  I  saw  myself  on  a 
winter  night  relating  this  very  story  of  ad- 


344       Tales  of  the   Malayan   Coast 

venture  to  an  old  gray-haired,  bronzed-faced 
father,  and  a  mother  whose  parting  kiss  still 
lingered  on  my  lips,  to  my  younger  brother, 
and  sister.  I  could  feel  their  undisguised 
admiration  as  I  told  of  my  fight  with  pirates 
in  the  Bornean  sea.  It  is  wonderful  how 
the  mind  will  travel.  Yet  with  my  thoughts 
in  Maine,  I  saw  and  felt  that  the  Illanums 
were  gradually  gaining  on  us.  Our  men 
were  weary  and  feeble  from  two  days'  fasting, 
while  the  pirates  were  strong,  and  thirsting 
for  our  blood. 

The  captain  kept  glancing  first  at  the 
enemy  and  then  at  a  musket  that  lay  near 
him.  He  longed  to  use  it,  but  not  a  man 
could  be  spared  from  the  oars.  Hand  over 
hand  they  gained  on  us.  Turning  his  eyes 
on  me  as  I  sat  in  the  bow,  the  captain 
said,  while  he  bent  his  sinewy  back  to  the 
oar,  "  Jack,  are  you  a  good  shot  ? " 

I  stammered,  "  I  can  try,  sir." 

"Very  well,  get  the   musket   there   in    the 


A   Fight  with   Illanum   Pirates     345 

bow.  It  is  loaded.  Take  good  aim  and 
shoot  that  big  fellow  in  the  stern.  If  you 
hit  him,  I'll  make  you  master  of  a  ship 
some  day." 

Tremblingly  I  raised  the  heavy  musket  as 
directed.  The  boat  was  unsteady.  I  hardly 
expected  to  hit  the  chief,  but  aimed  low, 
hoping  to  hit  one  of  the  rowers  at  least. 
I  aimed,  closed  my  eyes,  and  fired.  With 
the  report  of  the  musket  the  tall  leader 
sprang  into  the  air  and  then  fell  head  fore- 
most amid  his  rowers.  I  could  just  detect 
the  gleam  of  the  moonlight  on  the  jewelled 
handle  of  his  kris  as  it  sank  into  the  waters. 
I  had  hit  my  man.  The  sailors  sent  up  a 
hearty  American  cheer  and  a  tiger,  as  they 
saw  the  prau  come  to  a  standstill. 

Our  boat  sprang  away  into  the  darkness. 
We  did  not  cease  rowing  until  dawn,  — 
then  we  lay  back  on  our  oars  and  stretched 
our  tired  backs  and  arms.  I  had  taken  my 
place  at  the  oar  during  the  night. 


346      Tales  of  the  Malayan  Coast 

Away  out  on  the  northern  horizon  we 
saw  a  black  speck ;  on  the  southern  horizon 
another.  The  captain's  glass  revealed  one 
to  be  the  pirate  prau  with  all  sails  set,  for 
a  wind  had  come  up  with  the  dawn.  The 
other  we  welcomed  with  a  cheer,  for  it  was 
the  Eangor.  Enfeebled  and  nearly  famish- 
ing, we  headed  toward  it  and  rowed  for  life. 
How  we  regretted  having  left  our  sails  on 
the  island.  The  prau  had  sighted  us  and 
was  bearing  down  in  full  pursuit ;  we  soon 
could  distinguish  its  wide-spreading,  rakish 
sails  almost  touching  the  water  as  it  sped 
on.  Then  we  made  out  the  naked  forms 
of  the  Illanums  hanging  to  the  ropes,  far 
out  over  the  water,  and  then  we  could  hear 
their  blood-curdling  yell.  It  was  too  late ; 
their  yell  was  one  of  baffled  rage.  It  was 
answered  by  the  deep  bass  tones  of  the 
swivel  on  board  the  Eangor  sending  a  ball 
skimming  along  over  the  waters,  which,  al- 
though it  went  wide  of  its  mark,  caused  the 


A  Fight  with  Illanum  Pirates     347 

natives  on  the  ropes  to  throw  themselves 
bodily  across  the  prau,  taking  the  great  sail 
with  them. 

In  another  instant  the  red  sail,  the  long, 
keen,  black  shell,  the  naked  forms  of  the 
fierce  Illanums,  were  mixed  in  one  undefin- 
able  blot  on  the  distant  horizon. 

And  that  ^as  the  skipper's  yarn. 


24859® 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


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